


Anywhere I Would Have Followed You

by afirethatcannotdie



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff and Smut, M/M, OT4, Oral Sex, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 07:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 63,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7749652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afirethatcannotdie/pseuds/afirethatcannotdie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"There’s nothing between us. We’re just co-workers. We literally just met, like, four days ago. I’ve known you almost as long as I’ve known him. There’s nothing going on.”</em>
</p><p>  <em>“Yeah, okay, keep telling yourself that. But I can see your heart eyes.”</em></p><p>  <em>“My heart eyes? Excuse me?”</em></p><p>  <em>“Your heart eyes. You look at him like you’re a little bit in love with him.”</em></p><p>Or, an AU in which Louis is ridiculously dedicated to his job as a travel writer, Harry desperately wants to become an established photographer, and Paris might just be the place where they fall in love. </p><p>Featuring a fake proposal, a boy who's nursing a broken heart and another who's afraid to open up, and a random work assignment that's the best thing that's ever happened to them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a labor of love over the past few months and I'm so excited to release it to the world!
> 
> [Steph](http://stephhiee.tumblr.com/) \- thanks for being the greatest beta I could've asked for. Your fingerprints are all over this and it's so, so much better because of you. Dream team all the way.

“Monsieur Styles, your room is on the third floor. Just through there and then up three flights of stairs and it’s on the left,” the clerk says as she hands him a keycard. “There’s no lift; would you like me to get someone to carry your bag up to your room, sir?”

“No, I can take it from here. _Merci_ ,” he says as he takes the card from her and lifts the handle of his suitcase, flashing her a smile before leaving the lobby.

After a few agonizing minutes of wrestling with his suitcase to get it up the winding wooden staircase (when he gets home he’s really going to have to start lifting more weights) he makes it to the third floor and gets to his room.

The room is beautiful, gold silk drapes covering the windows and brocade fabric on each of the beds and a comfortable-looking burgundy couch in the corner of the room. It’s all very Parisian, stylish and presumably very expensive, exactly what he’d have expected. Still, it manages to be open and comfortable. He’ll be happy here, he thinks.

He leaves his suitcase at the foot of the bed closest to the window before pulling back the sheer inner curtain and opening the doors to the balcony. The street below is busy. He steps out and lets the noise envelope him, the two-toned ambulance siren and the little boy calling for his mother and the worker at the fish stand yelling words in a language he knew once upon a time but now barely understands. He stands there for a few moments, eyes closed, letting it all wash over him.

He’s wanted this for a long time, and it’s hard to believe that he’s finally getting a shot at it now. He has a lot to prove, he knows that with certainty, but he’s also determined. He refuses to let anything get in the way of making this happen.

He opens his eyes and heads back into the room, shutting the door behind him as he goes. He puts his suitcase up on the bed, humming to himself as he unzips it and starts to unpack his things. Within minutes, the case is empty and everything is put away in its temporary home.

He flops down on the bed then, limbs spread like a starfish. It’s been a long day, what with getting up at 5 am for his mum to drive him down to London to catch the Eurostar. He’d begged her not to, had told her one of his mates could do it and that she needn’t trouble herself, but she’d insisted. Then of course there had been the tears, his pleas of ‘Mum, honestly, I’ll only be in France for two weeks, it’s going to be fine,’ falling on deaf ears. His stomach rumbles suddenly, reminding him that while he’d intended to get food on the train ride, he’d instead spent the two hour trip frantically flipping through his French phrase book from secondary school.

It’s not his first time in Paris, but it’s his first time here for work. God, he still can’t believe that he’s here on a work trip, he’s _so_ fucking lucky. He’s getting put up in a hotel, and they’d paid for him to come to Paris, all under the premise of a travel story. It’s a bit unbelievable even still.

He just hopes it’s enough of the experience that Conde Nast’s Traveler magazine’s editor is looking for.

He lets the nerves settle over him for a minute, his concern that it _won’t_ be enough, that he’ll do all this work and they’ll reject his job application anyway. But he doesn’t want to think about that right now, not when they’ve thrown him a bone and given him a chance to prove himself.

He’s in Paris, and that’s enough for now. Sure, he’ll be sharing a room with the story’s writer, some guy named Louis, but he doesn’t care. He’s in Paris, getting paid to take photographs.

Not too bad for a 23-year-old guy from Cheshire.

*

“ _Je voudrais un…un sandwich_?” he asks, cringing at his accent. He sounds so bloody English, is the thing. It’s embarrassing. Surely he could have done a better job of brushing up on his French. The young woman stares at him, and he’s sure he’s not imagining the slight sneer in her expression. “ _S’il vous-plait_ ,” he adds, flashing her a dimpled smile. He knows he’s got her then, when she replies in English.

“What can I get for you?”

“Just this ham and cheese one would be great, thanks,” he says, handing over five euro in exchange for the wrapped sandwich. “ _Merci_ , have a nice day.”

He walks to a park across the street and takes a seat on a bench a few feet away from a play structure. There’s a handful of children running around and squealing. He can’t understand what they’re saying, but he smiles anyway. They remind him of his neighbors from back home, the ones he used to babysit on weekends.

The ham and cheese sandwich is simple, but it’s delicious. He eats in silence, thinking about the last time he was in Paris. It’s been seven years since he came here on a school tour, 16 years old and leaving the country for the first time without his parents. That trip had been his first real adventure, he’d thought that he was _so_ grown up. He looks back now and thinks that that boy didn’t know a single thing about the world.

He’s not the same person he was back then, he thinks, as he gets up and throws his rubbish into the bin. A lot of really shitty things have happened to him. But things are better now. He’s so much better off, he reassures himself.

*

He’s panting by the time he reaches the third floor of the hotel, holding onto the railing as he catches his breath. He goes for runs a few times a week; these stairs should not be killing him so much. Why doesn’t this place have a bloody lift?

The door is ajar when he gets back, so he knocks twice before calling out, “Hello?” He pushes the door open.

There is a boy standing by the doors that lead to the balcony, looking out the window. He turns when he hears Harry come in. “Uh, hi, you must be Harry, yeah?” he asks, stepping around the bed to shake his hand.

He has a firm grip and a cold hand and Harry realizes he’s not so much a boy as he is a man, stubble lining his jaw, probably from a day or two of not shaving. “I’m Louis Tomlinson.”

Louis' eyes are cerulean, the precise shade of Harry’s favorite color crayon in primary school. He’s got a lock of hair that’s come loose from his swept back fringe, and something in Harry is just dying to move it back into place. His hand gives a little twitch as if it’s about to do just that, but he stubbornly keeps it by his side. Louis is beautiful, with sharp cheekbones and long eyelashes and a bright smile. He just might be the most handsome boy Harry has ever met.

But Harry’s here for work, and Louis is his co-worker, so he refuses to be attracted to him. He will not allow himself to reach that point.

“Louis, nice to meet you. I’m Harry. Harry Styles.”

Louis takes a seat on his bed and gestures for Harry to do the same. Harry sits cross-legged, picking at a stray bit of thread in the duvet as Louis introduces small talk about their respective Eurostar rides over from London.

“I could’ve met up with you in London, we could’ve come over together,” Louis says, “except that I had to work a half day today. It’s like, they send me on this trip to Paris, but they still want me to work the whole day before I leave. And then they let _Karen_ in the office next to me fuck off and do whatever she wants for the whole bloody day. Ridiculous.”

Harry stays silent; he doesn’t have much to offer in the vein of office politics or tough work schedules. So he just smiles when the story calls for it, and lets Louis talk. He could probably do that all day, he thinks idly, admiring the way he’s so expressive when he talks. It’s like eighty percent of everything he’s feeling is written on his face.

“But wait, let me tell you this other story about Karen, what she said when she found out that I was coming to Paris. Oh my _God_ , was she pissed..”

*

They go for a walk shortly afterwards, because there’s no sense in being cooped up indoors when it’s a beautiful spring day in Paris.

“Have you been here before?” Harry asks as they approach the Seine.

“Came here once while I was in uni, but it’s been a few years,” Louis answers, looking up at him. “What about you?”

Harry’s about to answer when Louis gives a little shout and stops short at one of the _bouquinistes_ , the booksellers that have green stalls all along the river.

“Look at this, _Le Petit Prince_!” He exclaims, excitedly picking the book up off the table. “I used to _adore_ this book.” He starts flipping through the pages, drawings of yellow-haired boys and roses and blue planets on every one.

Harry smiles at his genuine enthusiasm, this twenty-five year old man excited like a small child over this book he read when he was young.  


“You -- you alone will have the stars as no one else has them,” Louis reads from the book. “In one of the stars I shall be living.”

“In one of the stars I shall be laughing.” Harry cuts in, and Louis looks up at him, shock plain on his face.

“You know this book?”

“Of course I do,” Harry says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Read it when I was in school.”

“This is my _favorite_ book,” Louis says, and his eyes are shining with nostalgia. “I used to read it every single day, for years. Had the whole thing memorized. I’m not sure what happened to my copy. I haven't seen it in ages, now.”

“I’ll buy it for you,” Harry says then, just as the thought comes into his head. He pries the book from Louis' hand, pulling his wallet out and approaching the bookseller, ignoring Louis' protests. “How much -- uh, _combien?_ I think it’s _combien_ , anyway.”

The bookseller gives him a price and Harry takes the money out of his wallet, once again ignoring any protests Louis tries to make. Eventually Louis goes quiet, and it makes Harry feel better about the gesture. He hands the book to Louis and they start walking along the pavement again.

“Thank you, thank you _so_ much, Harry,” Louis says, voice earnest as he clutches the book to his chest. “You didn’t have to do that, really.”

“Wanted to,” Harry says, shrugging a shoulder. “You seemed so excited, I didn’t want you to walk away empty-handed. It’s no big deal.”

“No, really, Harry. Thank you.” Louis wraps an arm around himas they’re walking, squeezing his shoulder once, his touch firm and warm. Harry has to fight the urge to jump away from the shot of electricity that floods his veins when Louis touches him. Louis pulls away, and Harry feels strangely empty. He tells himself it’s just because he’s been missing human contact, that’s it. Never mind the fact that his mum hugged him goodbye this morning.

They walk in silence for a bit until they reach the St-Michel Fountain, not far from Notre Dame. Louis gestures to a pub on the corner, one that’s got fancy script lining the side and advertises itself as an English pub. Harry’s not completely convinced it’s authentic, but he’s willing to give it a shot anyway.  

“Fancy a pint?” Louis asks. “A bit of home, maybe, at least on this first day.”

Harry nods. “Sounds good to me.”

*

They’re sat on the outside patio a few minutes later, pints in hand.

“So you were about to tell me earlier, before I interrupted you,” Louis starts, “about whether or not you’ve been to Paris before.”

“Right, okay,” Harry says, taking a long sip. “Came here when I was 16, on a school tour. Some kind of educational thing. Was a bit of a mess, the first time I ever got drunk, believe it or not. But I loved it. All the art, the history of it, the freedom of being away from home for the first time. Thought it was the coolest place in the world. That's actually why I wanted to do this story. Always wanted to come back.”

“An English Speaker’s Guide to Paris, huh? How did you end up picking that one?” Louis asks. “And hey, aren’t you doing this because -- Simon said that you’re doing this because you’re applying for the assistant editor position, is that right?”

“Yeah, I mean… Guess I just liked the idea of it. Thought it’d be a nice assignment,” Harry says with a shrug. “Never expected they’d actually pick me though. They told me to send them a bunch of pitches, as like, a freelance type of thing, and they said they would pick one.” ”

“It’s funny what they’ll pick. My first few assignments were bloody weird, going to write about the birth of a baboon in an American zoo and these ancient booksellers in Toronto and interviewing these people that biked across Europe. Looks like you managed to get a good one.”

Harry smiles, not really sure what to say. The truth is that he’s not too experienced in this kind of thing, but somehow the people at Condé Nast Traveler decided to give him a shot, and he’s determined to do anything to show them that they made the right choice.

“So if you haven’t been doing freelance photography for the Traveler before this, what _have_ you been doing?” Louis asks.

“Well, I just graduated from uni last year. I thought I was going to go work in a photography studio with -- with a… a friend, but then that fell through.” He swallows hard, wondering how it hasn’t gotten easier to tell this story by now.

“What happened?” Louis asks as he finishes off his beer.

“It just… it didn’t work out. It’s a sad story. It’d be a shame to ruin a nice day with it.” He takes a sip of his beer and fiddles with the paper coaster, picking at the edge of it with his fingernail, his eyes focused on the table. “Anyway, thought I was going to be doing that so I had a place arranged in London and all, was living with this--this friend. When that fell through I tried to make it work in London for a bit, stayed with my old roommate from uni, but eventually I had to move back home.”

“Where’s home?”

“Holmes Chapel,” Harry says immediately, looking back at Louis then. “Cheshire.”

“A country boy, huh?” Louis asks with a smirk.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that, I did just spend the last four years in London after all. Where are you from?”

“Doncaster,” Louis admits.

“Knew that had to be some kind of Northern accent. So you’re not much better, that’s still the country, huh?”

Louis rolls his eyes and signals to the waitress that they’ll take another round. She nods, and Harry’s already excited for his second beer, can feel the slight buzz he’s gotten, which makes him a little less afraid to stare at Louis’ perfectly sculpted cheekbones.

“I’m going to ignore that, and you’re going to tell me what exactly you’ve been doing since you graduated from university then, after all this… boy trouble.” He waves his hands around almost flippantly.

“It’s not -- it is not boy trouble!” Harry sputters, eyes wide.

“Yep, okay, definitely boy trouble,” Louis concludes with a satisfied smile, leaning back in his chair as the waitress returns with two beers.

“Okay, okay, it was my ex-boyfriend.” Harry admits with a groan. “Satisfied?”

Louis just grins. “Pretty boys like you always have a sob story. It’s in your nature or something.”

“I -- I’m going to ignore that,” Harry says definitively, even though his brain is thrumming with _Louis thinks you’re pretty, Louis thinks you’re pretty, Louis thinks you’re pretty._ “So I went home in the middle of the summer after I got sick of living on my mate’s couch -- or maybe it was him who got sick of me, I’m not sure -- and moved back in with my mum and stepdad. Been doing some photography gigs, little things like taking photos at kids’ birthday parties and setting up photo booths at weddings. Oh, and I work in a bakery, too,” he says.

“Busy man,” Louis comments. “So how’d you end up applying to the Traveler, then?”

“Sent in applications to a whole load of travel magazines. It’s just -- this is always what I’ve wanted to do, you know? Travel photography. It’s all well and good to be photographing goofy parties and weddings and taking portraits, it’s a good bit of fun, but that’s not what I want. I want something more, something better. Something...great.”

“And this is that something great?” Louis asks.

“Well, I hope so. I’m hoping that you and I are gonna make it that way.”

“Something great,” Louis says thoughtfully. “Alright.”

He stares at Harry for just a beat longer than is polite, and Harry might have a butterfly tattoo on the outside of his stomach, but he’s currently got actual butterflies inside of it too.

*

They’re walking back to their hotel a few hours later, bellies full of the fish and chips they’d devoured, the sky dark but the lights around them bright. They’re walking along the river, and just across the water is the Louvre, the gorgeous building where a sixteen year old Harry had decided that he wanted to be an artist.

“So you can speak French then, if you studied it in secondary school?” Louis asks after a few moments of silence.

Harry huffs a laugh. “The extent of my knowledge is pretty much _Je suis allé au cinéma avec mes copains et ma famille_ ,” he admits, “but I can say that really well, I’ve had loads of practice.” He grins cheekily.

Louis laughs, loud and clear like a bell. “You are something else, Harold.”

Harry thinks about telling Louis that it’s actually just Harry, but something in his inebriated state of mind tells him that Louis knows that and is just being affectionate, maybe even a little flirty.

The thought fills him with warmth.

*

Harry’s knackered when they get back, absolutely dead tired. He takes a shower and is brushing his teeth in the loo when Louis pops his head into the open doorway.

“Oh, sorry. Just gonna call me mum out on the balcony, didn’t want you to think I’d disappeared or something,” he says with a shy smile, cheeks flushed.

“Okay,” Harry answers, as best one can with a mouth full of toothpaste. “Good night.”

“Sleep well, Harold.”

Harry goes for a wee and then slips into bed, the sheets soft against his bare legs. He shifts around for a few minutes, trying to get comfortable. Once he’s quiet, he can hear Louis outside on the phone, can barely make out any of what he’s saying but he can hear his soft voice, low and pleasant. Harry can see his form silhouetted through the sheer curtain, leaning against the railing to peer out at the road below as he smokes a cigarette.

“His name’s Harry,” Louis is saying. “He’s lovely, mum.”

Harry turns over, away from the window, and closes his eyes. That’s the last thing he hears before he slips into his dreams.

*

Louis Tomlinson’s naked arse is the first thing he sees when he wakes the next morning. It’s pale and it’s quite large and it can’t be more than a mere ten feet away from his face. He should turn away, is the thing, he should pretend he hasn’t seen it, but Harry’s always had a thing for a nice arse, and he figures he’s not hurting anyone if he admires it for just another second or two.

There’s a towel on the ground around Louis' ankles, and he’s bent down going through his suitcase looking for some clothes. His hair looks wet like he’s just showered and the towel must have slipped from his waist.

Harry realizes he shouldn’t be looking so he reluctantly closes his eyes and turns away. He waits a few moments before giving a loud cough to indicate that he’s awake and sits up slowly, the blanket pooling around his waist. He stretches his arms in the air in a way that is so over-exaggerated it’s almost theatrical, his eyes still closed. He’s trying to give Louis time to get his clothes on. He may have just spent a solid three minutes ogling his arse, wondering what it would feel like beneath his hands, lending a quick second to what it would feel like to drag his teeth along it...but -- nope. No more of that. Enough is _enough_.

When he opens his eyes, Louis has on a pair of pants and is one leg into his trousers. “Good morning,” Harry says with a smile.

“Good morning, Harold.” Louis says, turning around to face him. “Sleep well?”

“I did, yeah,” Harry says. “But -- you know it’s not actually Harold, right? Just Harry.”

“Whatever you say, Hazza. Just like to nickname people. Consider it a compliment. Not everyone gets the privilege of a Tomlinson nickname,” Louis answers cheekily. Harry just groans. It appears that he’s already been given multiple Tomlinson nicknames. “Can you hurry up and get dressed? I’m starving.”

Harry opens his mouth to say something about how that is an extraordinarily bossy thing to say to someone you’ve only met eighteen hours ago, but he figures that if they’re going to spend the next two weeks together, he’s going to have to let it go. So he gets out of bed and gets dressed.  

*

“I think that we should start with the Louvre,” Louis announces a little while later as he’s stirring the milk into his tea.

“You -- really?” Harry asks. The Louvre is a big place, you could spend days there if you really wanted to. It’s not that he doesn’t like it -- he loves it, in fact, has since the first time he came here -- but it’s a bit heavy for the first day. He was thinking they’d do something like the Eiffel Tower, something a little less involved.

“Yeah, get it over with, like,” Louis says, taking a sip of his tea and instantly recoiling. “Ouch, too hot. I always do that,” he complains.

“You gotta blow on it first,” Harry offers helpfully.

“Is that what you tell all the boys, Styles?” Louis asks with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Harry groans, rolls his eyes, and reaches over to take a piece of pineapple out of Louis' fruit bowl with his fork.

“Oh, you can have that,” Louis says, pushing it toward him. “I won’t be eating it.” Harry gives him a confused look, and Louis just shrugs. “Fruit is gross.”

“You -- okay, whatever.” Harry says, shaking his head and taking the bowl from him. He’s already learned that Louis has his quirks, and he’s gonna have to roll with the punches. It’s proving to be not too difficult so far, seeing as how completely adorable he is, even despite these quirks.

“Anyway, as I was saying before you so _rudely_ interrupted me with your _sexual innuendo_ ,” Louis says, clearly trying to get a rise out of Harry, and when Harry opens his mouth to protest, he holds up a hand to stop him. He shuts his mouth. “I think we should go to the Louvre, and you can get your pictures, and I’ll take notes on all my favorite things, and then we can do something more fun.”

“The Musée du Louvre is an institution, how _dare_ you suggest that it’s boring.” Harry says, acting more offended than he actually feels. He loves the place, but he can see why others may not. He recalls from the last time he was there that it can be a lot to take in all at once.

“It is an institution, and one that I can appreciate, but I have seen it from top to bottom already and I think that there are much more interesting things in this city. So, quick, tell me your five favorite art pieces there so we can put together a list,” Louis orders, pulling his notebook, a thin black moleskine, out of his bag and uncapping his pen with his teeth.

Harry stalls, taking a sip of his freshly squeezed orange juice while he thinks. “Okay, off the top of my head...Vermeer’s painting _The Astronomer_. The sculpture of Psyche and Cupid.” He counts off one finger for each piece he names, and Louis scrawls each one onto the paper with messy handwriting, and then looks up expectantly at Harry, waiting for him to name the other three pieces. “The painting of The Wedding at Cana. Nike of Samothrace, my favorite sculpture of all time. Aaand, okay, wait, one more…I suppose Venus de Milo. Another nice sculpture.”

Louis makes a surprised sound at this last one, and Harry raises an eyebrow for him to speak. “Thought for sure you were going to say the Mona Lisa.”

Harry scoffs. “The Mona Lisa is hardly in my top five. Probably not even in my top twenty.”

“What, you too?” Louis asks, surprise obvious on his face. “Thought I was the only sane person in this godforsaken world not obsessed with it.”

“I think it’s fine, just a bit overrated,” Harry admits. “So, d’you reckon we should get going? I’m not sure what time it opens but it’d be brilliant to beat the crowds.”

*

“So this is where I decided I wanted to become a photographer,” Harry says as they descend the stairs within the Louvre pyramid.

“The Louvre?” Louis asks, surprise lacing his voice. Harry nods. “Hmm. Maybe it’s not such a bad place after all, then, Harold.”

Harry just laughs, knows that if Louis doesn’t like the Louvre there’s going to be no convincing him, but that’s not his job. His job is to take photos, and that is what he’ll do. If he just so happens to do so while enjoying the company of this lovely boy from Doncaster with the glorious arse, who is somehow delightfully charming despite his numerous quirks, well… Harry didn’t choose his partner for this, they were simply placed together. Randomly. By the magazine. And that’s all there is to it.

Harry jerks back into reality and they walk in silence for a bit, grabbing maps and silently heading for the statue of Nike of Samothrace. It’s Harry’s absolute favorite piece, from the draped fabric to the fierce stance...the elegance of it all makes it a true masterpiece. Harry’s not sure of a lot, feels deeply uncertain about most things in regards to his life, least of all his presence here for this assignment, but he’s sure of this piece. It is, in a word, breathtaking.

“The first time I came here,” Harry says, breaking the silence after he’s taken a few pictures and they’re both back to admiring the art just for themselves, “the first time I saw this piece, I was sixteen. I was sixteen and a little bit dorky and I was massively interested in the art. Like... _so_ interested. And all my friends wanted to do was run around outside, play in the gardens or try to get a shopkeeper to sell us a bottle of wine, but I just wanted to stay here all day. They were all begging the teachers to let us leave and there I was, silently hoping they’d say no.”

Louis looks up at him, eyes wide, his teeth biting onto his lower lip. _He’s beautiful_ , Harry thinks, not for the first time since meeting him just yesterday.

“Anyway, I realized that day that I wanted to become a photographer. Wanted to photograph all of this--” he waves a hand around at the room “--and take it home with me. You asked me, earlier, why I got into this. This is why. This piece.”

Louis just stares at him, silent, eyes bright, and Harry desperately wants to know what he’s thinking. His skin feels a little too hot, a feeling he hasn't felt in quite some time, and he wants it gone. He steps away then, shaking himself out of the moment.

“Anyway, shall we go on?”

*

They spend the rest of the morning in the museum, and no matter how many times Harry swears he didn’t tell Louis the story about the kids from school to make him feel bad, Louis still insists they stay as long as Harry wants to. Louis indulges him, listening intently as he points out the gold detailing on the plates in the Napoleonic apartments, the curvature of the spine on the Venus de Milo, the intricate brushwork on the painting that Coldplay used for the cover of their album Viva La Vida. He listens to all of it like he actually wants to know, like he actually cares and is possibly even _interested_ , and Harry truly doesn’t know if anyone has ever paid him that much attention for that long while he was blabbering on about art. It’s definitely a first.

When they finally emerge above ground into the sunlight around one o’clock, Harry feels a little bit like he's floating.

<< >>

Louis hates museums. Like, absolutely cannot stand them. He sees their value, sure, but being pressed into a crowd of people all trying to get a look at the same tiny painting is hardly his idea of fun.

Just Google it, for God’s sake. Or look it up in a textbook, or _something_. You basically get the same view, and you avoid the masses of tourists and pretentious art students in the meantime.

So Louis really had wanted to just take a ‘get in, do the work, get out’ approach to the Louvre. But then Harry had been so bloody honest with his story, the nostalgia in his expression far too much for Louis to bear, and, as much as he hates to admit it, he’d won Louis over.

Louis was pretty sure Harry hadn't even meant to. Yet, here they are, with Louis always waiting for Harry to take the first step before moving on to a different area, and Louis actually listening to the things Harry has to say. Actually wanting to listen, and even commenting his own sincere thoughts and questions (yes, _sincere_ , what a concept for him, _he knows_ ). If only those teachers from secondary school who said he would never amount to anything could see him now.

“Shall we grab some lunch?” Louis asks then as they're walking toward the Tuileries. “Can take it to eat in the gardens, maybe.”

Harry nods, and they start toward a row of shops; shockingly, Louis is pretty sure there's a bakery somewhere along here, remembers trying to flirt with one of the workers to get a free sandwich last time he was here.

They find the bakery (Louis loves being right) and peruse the selection. They order two sandwiches, Harry sporting an embarrassed blush on his cheeks as he trips over his words.

“You think that was bad?” Harry asks with a self-deprecating grin as they walk out of the shop and cross the road to the gardens. “You should've seen me yesterday, I was awful. Even worse than that. That was an improvement, mate.” Louis says nothing, just grinning to himself, because if he’s being honest, watching Harry try so hard and fail even harder somehow made him cuter, if that’s even possible.

There’s a couple with a small child vacating a pair of lime green seats around one of the fountains, and they wait for them to leave before taking their spots. Harry coos at the baby as they leave, a goofy smile on his face.

“She looks like one the kids I babysit,” Harry says, by way of explanation, as he bites into his sandwich.

“You -- you babysit?” Louis asks, eyes wide.

Harry looks taken aback. “Yeah, yeah, I mean…sometimes. Have a few little neighbors, like to help their parents out when I get the chance. It’s not like, a big deal or anything.”

This makes Louis smile. He suddenly can picture Harry laying on the ground making funny faces, reading out of a storybook, cutting the crusts off sandwiches, all of which is…a lot. Anyway.

“So, I believe it was your turn to tell me how you started doing this,” Harry says, just as Louis is biting into his sandwich.

Louis nods and finishes chewing as Harry waits expectantly. “Right, right. Kind of fell into it, I guess, wasn't intentional.”

“How do you mean?”

“Was studying for an English degree and submitted a travel piece for a competition. Ended up winning first prize, which was a trip to London to write an article for their magazine. Wasn’t far of a trip but it was still brilliant. Got published then, and one thing kind of led to another and by the time I graduated from uni I had a couple of job offers. Been doing the writing thing ever since.”

“That’s…that’s brilliant,” Harry says earnestly. He takes another bite of his sandwich and Louis notices that he’s got a bit of mayonnaise just on the corner of his lip.

“You’ve got a bit of…” Louis gestures to his own lip and Harry’s hand flies up to his mouth, but it’s the wrong side.

“Here, I’ll get it.” Louis reaches out a hand without thinking, thumb reaching out to brush the mayonnaise off. Harry inhales, and his whole body goes still, and Louis thinks, _Oh, fuck_. Time seems to stop as his hand hovers over the spot for a few long seconds; time is elastic, bendy, stretching on and on, and all Louis can think is _Fuck, this is not appropriate behavior for someone I’ve just met._

And then Harry swallows, and the moment is broken, and Louis drops his hand and averts his eyes as Harry murmurs a quick, barely audible, “Thanks.”

“Should...should we get going then?” Louis asks, standing up quickly and trying not to make a big deal out of what just happened. He doesn't make eye contact as Harry picks up his camera and stumbles out of his chair.

*

He’s just picked up a copy of Hemingway’s _A Moveable Feast_ , his memoir recalling his time living in Paris, a book he’s been meaning to read for ages because he's not quite sure he can rightly call himself a travel writer without having read it.

“Oi, mate! Can y’not read the sign? Look at it, right there!.” A distinctly Irish voice calls, voice as stern as any of Louis' teachers in sixth form. “No. Photos. Allowed.”

Louis turns around to get a look at the idiot who ignored the blatant sign and, _oh_. It’s Harry. Harry, who’s standing there with a guilty look on his face, his camera suspended in mid-air, his mouth open as if unsure whether to protest or murmur an apology and scamper away. There’s a shorter guy with dyed blonde hair, brown roots poking through, and he’s got his finger pointed at Harry, not far from his chest.

“It’s for an article,” Louis says then, leaving the back room and going down the step that leads to the front of the shop. He moves to stand next to Harry, and Harry closes his mouth and nods. The blonde guy gives Louis a look filled with suspicion.

“Hi, I’m Louis, and this is Harry. We’re working on an article for Condé Nast Traveler magazine, and we  think we want to do a feature on you. Well, not _on_ you, but…on the bookshop. Shakespeare and Company.”

“You…why would I believe that?” The guy asks, taking a step back and crossing his arms as he leans against the till.

“I mean, I guess you don't have to,” Harry says, shrugging one shoulder, quickly catching on. “But we’re doing a piece on the best places for first time visitors to the city, specifically English-speaking ones, and it’d sure be a shame if the bookshop didn’t make the list.”

Louis doesn't know if Harry means it to sound like a threat, but what with the slow drawl of his voice and the vaguely frog-like expression he makes when he’s trying to be serious, it doesn't.

The man remains with the stern look on his face for a few more moments before letting out a laugh. “Yeah, okay mate, I'll believe you. Why the hell not, what do I have to lose?”

He releases his arms and goes back to his seat at the till. “What can I do for the two of you then?” He asks. “I’m Niall, by the way.”

“We need your help,” Harry says. “Places to go, fun things to do here, what’s going to give people the best stories when they go home and brag to all their friends that they’ve just been to Paris on holiday.”

Twenty minutes later, they leave the bookshop with Niall’s phone number and a promise to meet him at the pub around the corner once he’s finished his shift.

*

“Alright, so you're looking for essential tips, is that right? What to do, what to see?” Niall asks as he takes a long sip of his pint of Guinness. “Thanks for the drink, by the way. Really nice of you to treat, mate.”

Louis' eyes widen, and just as he starts to sputter something about how he absolutely did not offer to pay, Harry lays his hand on his forearm and gives him a look that, if Louis had to guess, says _‘Shut up and let him talk,’_ but...in a kinder way. Because Harry just doesn’t seem like the arsehole type.

“Guess I should tell you about the bookshop first, then, if you’re gonna be featurin’ it. So, we’ve been open since 1951,” Niall says, and soon he’s launched into an animated history of the shop, talking about how it was modeled after an early twentieth century shop of the same name that served as a haven for writers like Hemingway and Joyce and Fitzgerald, the fact that they host weekly events now like authors’ readings and Sunday teas, the fact that young writers can stay in the shop overnight in exchange for working a few hours a week.

“It’s pretty magical, when you think about it. Longest running English bookshop in Paris,” he says proudly.

“That’s brilliant, mate. How’d you end up working there?” Louis asks, and he’s got his black notebook open again, scribbling notes as Niall talks.

Niall launches into a dramatic tale involving a passport, a pub, and a promise, and by the end of it Louis still isn’t quite sure how Niall ended up working at Shakespeare and Company, but he’s genuinely about to fall off his chair in hysterics at the way beer has come out of Harry’s _nose_ from laughing at Niall’s story.

“Honestly, Curly, get it together,” Niall says, handing napkin after napkin to Harry to help him clean up the mess.

“Harold, you’ve got beer dripping all down your chin,” Louis says, laughing. It’s an endearing sight, if he’s being honest; there’s beer all over the table and coming out of Harry’s nose and dripping down onto his shirt and he just looks so goofy that it twists something in Louis' heart. Something that’s not even supposed to be there in the first place, damn it.

By the time they crawl into their respective beds that night, exhausted from a full day of walking and eating and Harry repeatedly apologizing to the waiter for the mess he’d made, they’ve got a fresh list of places to visit and a promise to meet Niall for lunch the day after tomorrow.

*

“I cannot believe you _ever_ thought this was a good idea,” Louis pants as he holds onto the railing, desperately trying to catch his breath.

“Aw c’mon, Lou, it’s really not that much farther to go,” Harry says in what Louis thinks is meant to be an encouraging tone. All he can do is glare at Harry, towering eight steps above him. He’s smiling, seemingly unaffected, but Louis thinks he can see his chest heaving just the slightest bit. He’s got his hair held back with a patterned headscarf and his red and black plaid shirt is tied around his waist. Sweat stains are forming on his grey t-shirt, but something about the whole ensemble is really working for Louis. Even those stupid brown boots he’d insisted on wearing. On anyone else, it would look ridiculous, but Harry manages to make it look like the most fashionable (and attractive) thing Louis has ever seen.

“There’s like, a thousand more steps to go, Harold. I don’t think I can do this. Why don’t you go, take some notes for me. I can make the whole thing up later, it surely wouldn’t be the first time,” Louis says, but even as he says it he’s starting up the stairs.

“Louis, you can’t just skip out on Sacré Coeur!” Harry says, hands on his hips. Louis abruptly stops walking again, just to prove to Harry that he can, in fact, skip out on it if he wants to. “Plus, how can there be a thousand steps to go, when there are only 270 in total.”

Harry’s damn smirk. Louis groans. “Oh for fucks sake, Harry. How about you just give me a piggyback to the top?” He pouts his lip, and he sees Harry’s face go soft for a moment, just for a split second when the skin around his eyes relaxes and his mouth drops the tiniest bit. In that moment, Louis thinks he might actually agree to the idea.

And then he turns stern again. “Absolutely not. Louis Tomlinson, we are professionals. We are trying to do a _job_ here. How do you expect to write about climbing to the top of the Eiffel Tower if you can’t, you know, _climb_ to the top of the Eiffel Tower?”

“I’ll just take the lift to the top of the Eiffel Tower,” Louis says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “No need for stairs at all. There, problem solved.” Positively, absolutely fantastic.

“Fine, do whatever you want,” Harry says, turning on his heel, voice decisive. “But I’m going up, and I’m taking my camera with me.”

Louis watches him climb, up and up, and breathes a heavy sigh. Surely his desire to avoid climbing these stairs isn’t worth losing Harry. At the end of the day, he’s still his partner for this article. They can’t ditch each other just because Louis' decided to act like a bloody child (hey, at least he’s self-aware).

When he finally makes it to the top, Harry’s waiting with a satisfied grin on his face, holding out a water bottle for him. It’s cold; he must have just bought it. Louis takes it with a grateful smile.

“Thanks, Haz. Appreciate it.” He unscrews the top and takes a long sip, draining half the bottle in one go. “You want any?” He holds it out to Harry, who shakes his head.

“No, I bought it for you.”

“Thanks,” he says again, finishing it off quickly and walking over to toss it in the bin. “Ok, so what do we have here, now that I’ve survived the climb and finally caught my breath?”

Louis hadn’t come here the last time he’d come to Paris, had been too busy exploring the clubs and the good wine and flirting with the guy at the boulangerie to do anything like visit churches.

“Well, this is Montmartre,” Harry says, spreading his arms wide, nearly whacking a woman on the head. “Oh, sorry, sorry. Whoops.”

Louis just giggles, covering his mouth with his hand. “You’re like an elephant in a china shop, or whatever the expression is. Feel like you’re always knocking into things, with your too-long legs and your freakishly big hands.” As soon as he’s said it, he wishes he hadn’t. Not just because it’s a bit rude, but because it betrays a familiarity with Harry that he shouldn’t have at this stage, suggests that he’s spent a bit of time cataloguing his movements and all the things that make him _him_. Which -- no, of course Louis hasn’t spent any time doing that. Of course not.

“Okay, I’m ignoring that comment too,” Harry says, giving Louis a little grin. “So this is Montmartre, the highest point of the city. Look, turn around,” he says, his hands on Louis' shoulders to spin him to look down at the city, and Louis is silent. For a moment, he’s not sure he’s even breathing.

Louis has been many places and seen many things, has seen baby elephants being born in Thailand and has been inside Buckingham Palace and has stood third row at a Beyoncé concert, but he’s not sure if any of those things top this moment, seeing the wide expanse of the city laid out in front of him. Mansard roofs and beige buildings extend as far as he can see, just to the edge of the city where the industrial park begins. To his right, he’s spotting the Eiffel Tower for the first time in years. On the plaza just below, there’s a man playing guitar and a handful of couples dancing around him to the cheerful beat.

He feels Harry take his hands off his shoulders and he can distantly hear the shutter of Harry’s camera, but he feels suspended in time, like this moment is magic. Later, he won’t be exactly sure what it was; the view is beautiful, for sure, absolutely gorgeous, but it’s more than that. It feels… it feels romantic, in a sense. The whole thing. The breathtaking boy beside him, the sun beating down on top of them, the people rushing along the plaza around them. It’s a proper romantic moment, and for the first time in a long time, Louis wishes he had someone to share it with. Wishes he had someone to kiss up here at sunset.

“Lou?” Harry asks, and as Louis turns to see his smile, he realizes that he does have someone to share it with, even if it’s not quite the romance he’s looking for in that moment.

_It could be, though_ , says a quiet voice in his head, one that he hasn’t heard for a long, long time. _It could be him_.

Louis orders the voice to shut up and go back to where it came from before he follows Harry into the basilica.

*

An hour later, after they’ve wandered around Montmartre for a bit, after he’s watched Harry take photos of the artists selling their creations, of the little girl getting her portrait drawn, of the way the mid-afternoon light hits the dome of the basilica, Louis starts to head back towards the stairs.

“Lou, the lift’s this way,” Harry says, jerking his head the opposite direction.

Louis' mouth falls open. “Do you mean to tell me,” he asks, mouth drawn tight, “that there was a bloody _lift_ to get up here? This whole time? Like, a lift, to the _top,_ that would have allowed me to avoid all those stairs you made me climb? You are an absolute monster.”

Harry shrugs and then grins, that stupid one that makes him look like a toddler and a frog at the same time. A toddler frog. A tadpole, Louis reasons, following that bizarre line of thinking to its end. Christ, he shouldn’t be able to catalogue this boy’s smiles already. He shouldn’t _know_ that Harry has a smile that makes him look like a tadpole, he shouldn’t know that he has one for when he’s being cheeky and another for when he’s looking at something he clearly finds beautiful. That stupid voice deep down inside may have suggested that he wants to learn _all_ of Harry’s smiles, but there is no way his brain will ever actively acknowledge that.

He punches Harry in the arm. Hard. “You're the worst.”

“The worst,” Harry agrees with a smile.

All Louis can do is shake his head and follow him down to the line for the stupid lift.

*

“Hey, Haz?” Louis asks that night as they're both laying on their beds over the covers, too exhausted to actually get up and get ready for bed.

“Mm,” Harry says, more of a noise than an actual response. He doesn't look up from his book.

“Haz,” Louis says again.

“Louis.” He marks his page in his book, some silly guide about places to see, and lets it fall to the side, turning to look at Louis.

“You wanna go get crêpes?”

Harry laughs, one sharp laugh that's a little like a bark. “Crêpes? Louis, no, it's already…oh.” He turns to look at the clock and sees that it’s only just past nine PM. “I mean…” He looks torn. “I’m trying to read this. You’re supposed to be working on the article draft. Have you even written more than fifteen words?”

“Please, come on, I know this great place that my friend told me about, supposed to be fantastic.” Louis knows he sounds eager, too eager, but he sort of doesn't care. He wants crêpes, and he's going to get them, even if he has to go alone. He’d prefer not to, though, considering the alternative option: trying to make Harry laugh as much as he can, obviously.

“Come on, pleeeease, I'll make it worth your while.” Harry raises an eyebrow at this, and as Louis runs the sentence through in his head again he wants to smack himself. Blood rushes to his cheeks. “I--I mean, I’ll pay for you. Pay for--for your crêpes,” Louis stammers. “Just, come on, let’s go.”

Harry heaves a sigh but Louis just stares at him. “Okay, fine. Let me just put on some shoes.”

Louis watches as he pulls on his brown boots and fixes his belt. His shirt pulls up a bit as he does it, and Louis can see two tattoos on the wide expanse of exposed skin of his stomach. He swallows and looks away; the urge to ask about the tattoos is just on the tip of his tongue. He pushes it away and grabs his wallet.

“You ready?”

*

Fifteen minutes later, they're standing on the bridge over the Seine and looking down at the water as they eat. Louis' famous crêpe place had turned out to be this tiny stand near St-Michel.

“How’s it taste, Hazza? Worth me coaxing you out of bed?”

“I'd say,” Harry says, swallowing the rest of his food, “I’d say you could write about this for the article. But at five euro for two crêpes it was hardly a splurge for you.”

“Hey, you have no idea of my financial situation!” Louis protests. “I could be dead broke. That could have been an extravagance, a luxury!”

“That swanky flat you live in in Notting Hill says otherwise,” Harry retorts, and Louis is about to protest, to argue that Harry knows he lives in Notting Hill but has no _c_ lue if his flat his swanky or not, but then Harry’s tongue reaches out to lick a bit of Nutella off the side of his lip and Louis' breath hitches in his chest. He feels frozen. He can hear blood pounding in his ears; can Harry hear that too? Why has the universe specifically chosen to torture Louis tonight with Harry Styles’ tongue?

“You okay, Lou?”

“What? Oh…yeah, yeah I'm fine. Sorry, think I, uh, think I swallowed funny there,” Louis stammers, and it's a testament to Harry’s decency that he doesn't point out that Louis wasn't eating anything at the time.

“You gonna finish that, or should I?”

“I think I'll be finishing it, thank you very much,” Harry says with a grin. “Had to get out of bed for it and everything, didn't I? Might as well eat it. I mean, first meal you’ve bought for me, it’s a real honor.”

Louis flushes then, and a thought rises to the surface of his mind, one that suggests he wouldn’t mind buying Harry Styles more meals for the rest of his life, would buy him a million more if it got him to grin like he’s doing right now.

They're quiet for a few minutes, chewing, watching tourist boats pass under the bridge. “Let me take a picture,” Harry says suddenly. “Budge over a bit.”

Louis moves to the side and balls up the wrapper of his crépe, sticking it in his pocket when he doesn’t immediately spot a bin. Harry looks up from messing with his camera settings. “No, I meant push over the other way. To be in the photo.”

Louis scoffs. “Harry, I hardly think Condé Nast Traveler wants my ugly mug in their magazine, it's alright.”

“Okay fine, I won't send it to them,” Harry retorts. “But let me take it for myself. To remember. It's my trip too, you know.”

There’s something in Harry’s voice that Louis can't quite place, so he just sets up against the bridge in a spot where he knows Harry will still have a good view of Notre Dame Cathedral. He crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue. Harry stares at him, refusing to take a photo.

“Lou, please,” he says when neither of them have moved in a minute or two. “Could you just be serious for, I don’t know, like, five seconds, please? For me.”

Louis shakes his head, frowns, his best depiction of a grumpy face, but then suddenly he's laughing and breaks into a wide smile, completely not in his control at all and, quite frankly, not his fault. Harry hits the shutter just in time to catch it, that damn beautiful talented boy.

Louis sticks out his tongue, and Harry captures that one too.

*

“Here, try this one,” Harry encourages, handing him a pink pastry that looks disgustingly artificial. “You might like it.”

“Hazza, I haven't liked the last three. What in the bloody hell makes you think I’ll enjoy this one?”

“Brunch at Ladurée is world-renowned,” Harry starts. “My mum’s always talking about it, she loves their macarons. Just try it.”

Louis shakes his head and starts poking at his egg with a fork, his face scrunched up like he's in actual pain. Which he might be, if Harry forces him to eat this. “Why does this have mushrooms in it? Honestly. Thank God we’re getting this comped, can't imagine how people actually pay fifty euro for this shit.”

Harry just looks at him, face blank, the proffered macaron placed back in the dish next to its three counterparts (which Louis will definitely not be tasting, no matter how many more cute faces Harry makes at him).

“Do you want to switch?” Harry asks then, his face looking vaguely pained. Harry’s chosen the French toast, though every other morning he’s had eggs at the hotel breakfast. Louis looks over at his plate, the French toast already half gone. Suddenly he remembers the book Harry bought him, the bottle of water he’d given him at Montmartre, all of the nice things he’s been doing for him. He's sure the French toast is delicious, but he can't do that to Harry. Christ, he’s twenty-five years old, he can stop complaining.

“That's okay, Haz. I'll just eat it. Sorry for being a tit. Can we get a burger or something later?”

When they finish brunch, Harry orders a box of macarons to be shipped to his mum, and Louis keeps his smile to himself.

*

“Okay, so I think it should be somewhere along here,” Louis says, looking at the blue dot on his iPhone that moves as they walk along the road.

“What’s it called again?”

“The Mazet. Should be up here on the right. Said it was like an English pub or something. Surprised he even talks to English people, to be honest, being Irish and all.”

“Guess he doesn’t have much choice here,” Harry jokes. “The English speakers all have to band together if they want to talk to anyone. Oh look, there it is.”

He opens the the door and then they’re inside a dark pub. Posters of Guinness and Magners line the walls, and little flags of Great Britain  are strung up like a banner. Niall’s sitting on the counter, leaning over and ruffling the hair of a tall guy who’s on the other side of the bar, trying to simultaneously dodge Niall and successfully pour a pint.

“Stop it, Horan! Leave me alone!” The guy yells, slapping Niall’s hand away, but he’s laughing and has a general light-hearted air about him.

“Styles! Tommo! You made it!” Niall yells when he sees them, all teasing forgotten as he throws his hands into the air and jumps off the counter to hug them both. Louis hadn't realized they were in nickname territory already, but something tells him Niall doesn't really know a stranger. Besides, Louis is one to talk, having given Harry approximately twenty-nine nicknames since they’ve arrived. But somehow, that feels different.

“How’s it going?” Harry asks as Niall leads them to the bar.

“Good, good. Listen, this is my friend Liam, he's the bartender here. Met him ages ago, we went to uni together and then both ended up moving here. Watch out for him, he’s complete trouble.”

“Oi! You watch it. Scaring off all my customers every day, this one,” Liam says as he extends a hand to shake theirs.

“I’m Harry, and this is Louis.”

“Nice to meet the two of you.”

Ten minutes later, they're sat at a table in the corner with a good view of the telly. Liam's just brought the three of them each a bag of crisps to go with their drinks. They're waiting for the football match to start and Niall’s speaking animatedly while writing some things down for them on a paper napkin.

“Okay, you gotta go to the Catacombs, you been there? It's proper creepy sometimes, all those skeletons.” He shivers a bit.

“Creepy like that cemetery we went to yesterday afternoon after Sacré Coeur? Pére Lachaise? That was the worst,” Louis comments.

“That place was not creepy!” Harry protests, turning to look at him where they’re sat on a worn brown leather couch. “It was…spirited.”

“Ha ha, creative choice of words there, Haz. But, no,” Louis says, laying a hand on his thigh. “That place was creepy.”

“You only think it was creepy because you kept scaring yourself!” Harry doesn’t flinch away from Harry’s hand on his thigh, so Louis allows himself to keep it there. He’ll remove it in just a second, he swears.

“You kept sneaking up on me and whispering ‘Boo!’ in my ear! How was I supposed to know it was you and not the ghost of Oscar Wilde?”

“Lou, I hardly think Oscar Wilde would waste his ghost life hanging around his grave and whispering ‘Boo’ to people. Same with Jim Morrison, who also just so happens to be buried here, you uncultured swine,” Harry says with a laugh.

“You don't know that! You don't know how ghosts act! Maybe the afterlife is boring, maybe they just hang around their graves and get annoyed anytime anyone gets too close.”

“Okay, whatever you say. Anyway,” he says, turning to Niall, “to answer your question, no, we haven't been to the Catacombs. We’ll have to go.”

Niall’s looking between them with a funny look on his face, and Louis quickly removes his hand from Harry’s thigh. He probably shouldn't have done that, shouldn't have touched Harry without his permission, but right now all Louis is thinking about is the easy banter that he and Harry have fallen into. The way they can laugh and joke with each other is _so, so_ comforting. Like they've known each other much longer than just a few days. There’s also Louis' growing crush, but he’s working on stamping down the little flames of that before they can grow any further. Co-workers, he reminds himself. They are co-workers, on a temporary project that will only last another ten days, and then they’ll go their separate ways. Because they’re just co-workers, co-workers who happen to get on quite well and hold each others’ gazes for just a split second too long, and...

Louis’ train of thought is interrupted (thank God, or, you know, whoever) when Niall hands him the napkin with a couple of other places to check out, and then they all turn their attention to the match. Liam’s replacement comes in as his shift ends and he settles in next to Niall. Louis has managed to procure himself a burger, and he’s perfectly content. There’s just one problem...

“You are _not_ telling me you're a Liverpool fan! Absolutely not. No. No way in bloody hell.” Louis says, his voice raising louder than he intends. “There's no way. You shouldn't even have a favorite team, you're from Ireland!”

Niall shrugs. “I mean, they're not my absolute favorite team, but, compared to United…yeah, I’ll be cheering for Liverpool.”

“God, I can’t believe we’ve known each other all of three days and you’re already betraying us like this,” Louis says, leaning back against the couch, arms crossed.

“Honestly.” Harry says, and he’s smiling a little bit. Louis likes feeling like there’s someone in his corner, regardless of whether Harry is actually a United fan or not.  


Things stay tame for most of the match as it’s a 1-1 score. It’s not until the very last minute when Liverpool is going for a goal and Louis' favorite United player steals the ball that things get heated. There are a few tense moments, and at the very last second, that same player takes a long kick. The whole bar leaps out of their seats, and Louis is biting his lip so hard it might bleed. His hands come up to pull at his hair, and then, like it’s happening in slow motion, he sees the long arc of the ball in the air and then -- it’s in. They’ve won.

Liam, Louis, and Harry erupt into cheers, but all Louis notices is Harry’s arms suddenly wrapped around his in a celebratory hug and the press of his lips on his cheek.

He still feels it long after they’ve sat down and moved on to other things.

<< >>

“So you and Louis,” Niall asks casually as he passes Harry a third pint. “Are you two, like… a thing?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, are you two like, shagging?” Niall asks with a shrug.

Harry looks around frantically to see if anyone in the small pub is listening, but Louis is outside having a smoke with Liam.

“What the hell gave you that idea, Niall?”

“Alright, I guess that’s a no.” He sits down and takes a long drink. He notices Harry’s shocked face then, and must feel the need to ask what’s wrong. “What?”

“Why on earth would you think the two of us were a thing?”

“Dunno. Just seen the way you look at him, seemed like maybe there was somethin’ going on there. But hey, sorry, if you’re offended I thought you were gay, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude.”

Harry opens his mouth, and then, unsure what to say, closes it again. He’s not sure where to begin. “Okay, no, I am gay, there’s nothing wrong with that, and of course I’m not offended that you thought so. Don’t try much to hide it, anyway. As for Louis, yes, of course he’s an attractive guy. But there’s nothing between us. We’re just co-workers. We literally just met, like, four days ago. I’ve known you almost as long as I’ve known him. There’s nothing going on.”

“Yeah, okay, keep telling yourself that. But I can see your heart eyes.”

“My _heart eyes?_ Excuse me?”

“Your heart eyes. You look at him like you’re a little bit in love with him.”

Harry’s saved from having to respond when Louis comes back to the table, holding two pints.

“Haz, this was for you, but… I guess you’ve already got one. More for me, then.”

Harry looks to Niall, who raises his eyebrows, as if to say, _Told you._

Harry groans.

*

“Louis! Lou, I’m back!” Harry calls when he walks into the room that night, arms full with the bag of groceries he picked up at the supermarket on the corner across the street from their hotel.

The bag is the reason he can't see anything, why his vision is blocked, why he doesn't have any advance notice that he's about to collide into another body before it happens.

“Oof,” says a voice, and obviously it's Louis, and, dear God, he's naked.

No, not naked, Harry realizes as he sets the grocery bag on the floor, but pretty close. Louis has wrapped a towel around his waist and his hair is wet and his arm has reached out to grip Harry’s bicep to stop himself from falling. They're frozen for a minute, until Harry finally speaks.

“Oh God, Lou, I’m so sorry. Sorry, I thought you heard, I wasn't looking where I was going.” He's probably never spoken so fast in his life (despite the fact that he’s probably talking at about the same pace as any normal person), and he’s never felt so flustered.

“It's okay, you're okay,” Louis says, and he takes a step back to let Harry pass by with the groceries, but his back hits the wall and he's stuck. The mistake gives Harry an extra couple of seconds in which his eyes linger on Louis' chest, on his tattoos, on the trail of hair that disappears beneath the towel. He’s seen him shirtless before, when he's changed clothes, but he’s never been so close or had the opportunity to look like this. It's probably just a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity.

“I, uh. Sorry, again. My mistake,” Harry says as he swallows hard and walks past Louis into the room. Because, holy shit. The boy is _fit_. It’s not like he hasn’t already had this thought cross through his mind more times than he would like to admit since they’ve met, but, still...it’s always a bit alarming.

“S’okay,” Louis says as he picks up a pile of clothes from the foot of his bed. “I’ll just...I’m gonna change in the loo.” His face appears flushed but there’s a decent chance Harry is imagining it, a delusion brought on by seeing Louis shirtless and wet three inches away from his face.

He walks away and Harry’s telling himself _no, no, no_ but his brain has other ideas as his eyes slide to Louis’ back, where the towel has slipped a bit and is now hovering just above the cleft of his ass. The door shuts and Louis is gone and Harry really, really needs to get a grip (no pun intended...well, maybe just a little bit.)

He drops the bag onto the counter and steadies himself with his arms on the countertop, eyes shut as he takes a deep breath. Niall’s words are ringing in his ears -- _are you attracted to Louis? He’s fit, mate, you know, objectively. You should go after him_ \-- and all he wants is to stamp down this stupid one-sided crush before anything happens. Before he gets himself in trouble and lands flat on his arse with a broken heart -- _again_ \-- and no job -- _again_.

He takes a deep breath and stands up fully.

“I got the wine you asked for. And the chocolate. And some cheese. And also some crisps, just because. And, finally, a baguette.” He's taking the food out of the bag and laying them out on the table as he names them, calling to Louis. “Oh, and strawberries, because I felt like the rest of it was too unhealthy.”

Louis comes out a few moments later, fully clothed in joggers and a t-shirt, thankfully. Harry's face still feels a little hot, and he's not sure if it's because of his embarrassment or because he's just realized that Louis is ridiculously fit. Not that he hadn’t known that before, but this is the first time he’s been well and truly gotten a good glimpse at his body. It’s probably a bit of both.

“Christ, did you buy out the whole shop?” Louis asks when he sees the pile of food. “It looked pretty small when we walked past; is there anything left?”

“Yeah, I just…I didn't know what to get. Went a little overboard, I suppose,” Harry says sheepishly. “I'll bring it out to the balcony? It's nice out.”

“I'll help you.”

Harry grabs two wine glasses and whatever else he can carry, leaving Louis to get the rest. The balcony door swings open and then they're outside, in the warm spring air, three stories above the ground. They can hear noise from the street, but Harry can’t make out the specific sounds.

“Like this area,” Louis says. “It’s nice here.”

“It is, yeah. Good place to sit,” Harry says as he pours them each a glass of red wine. He passes Louis his and their fingers brush over the glass. A little spark runs through Harry and he pulls away, busying himself with his own glass as he takes a seat.

There’s a pause before Louis speaks. “Want to play a game?” Harry’s head snaps over to him in surprise. Of all the things he was expecting Louis to say, that wasn’t it.

“What kind of game?” Harry asks quietly.

“Was thinking truth or dare. Used to play with my sisters all the time,” and Harry stares at him, a small smile on his face. Louis is full of surprises, honestly.

“Really? Truth or dare? How old are you?” There’s no harshness to his tone when he asks though, because he’s certainly not  opposed to the idea. He just really enjoys teasing Louis.

“Come on, it’ll be fun. Please,” Louis pleads, and the look on his face is so eager that Harry would be a fool to say no..

“Yeah, alright then.”

It starts off easy, mostly because they’re both picking truth almost every time. Not much room for dares on a tiny balcony on the third floor of a hotel, after all. So far they’ve gone through favorite movies, childhood memories, and most embarrassing stories from uni.

Harry’s just finished his first dare -- _I dare you to drink that whole glass in one go and then refill it_ \-- and dared Louis to do the same. The three glasses of wine must have gone straight to Louis' head because suddenly things take a deeper turn.

“Tell me about the time you first realized you were in love.”

Harry’s blood, previously thrumming pleasantly from the wine and the warm night air and the cute boy next to him, runs cold.

Louis must notice his reticence, even through his intoxication, because he’s quick to add, “Or tell me about the first time you went to a gay bar.”

Harry lets out a long breath. That one’s a lot easier to answer. “I’ve actually never been to one.”

Louis sits up straight. “What? How? Harold, you’ve failed me.” He puts his hand to his chest as if he’s been personally offended.

Harry shrugs. “I dunno… I had the same boyfriend for ages and he didn’t really like bars, so...we rarely went to them.”

“What? Why?” Louis presses.

Harry pauses for a couple of long seconds. “It’s a long story. And kind of a sad one, to be honest. I’d rather save it for some other time.”

Louis is quiet for a minute, taking a sip of his drink. He looks out onto the road, looking like he’s thinking deeply. When he speaks again, he’s animated.

“Okay, no worries, Curly. I get it. Well, do you want to hear about the first time I went to one? Well, you’re about to. It was here, actually, and I started talking to this bloke and he couldn’t speak English that well but he was proper fit, like, and somehow I ended up going back with him to his place. Well, turns out I misunderstood him entirely because he just wanted me to have a threesome with his girlfriend. Refused to listen to me when I said I didn’t sleep with women, said there was no real difference when you’re drunk, begged me to stay.”

He’s smiling broadly, and it makes Harry smile too. “What’d you do?”

“Hightailed it out of there, got out as quick as I could. Walked back to my hotel, the sun was practically up by the time I got there.”

“Man. That’s a story if I ever heard one.”

“Probably explains why I never saw any of the sights the last time I was here, just the inside of clubs and hotel rooms,” Louis says, and he takes a long swallow to finish off his glass.

“Hey, Hazza? Truth or dare. And you have to say dare cause you said truth last time.” His speech is a little slurred, but his eyes are bright.

“Alright, I guess I’ll have to go with dare.”

“I dare you to come back to that bar with me tomorrow night.”

Harry smiles. “Alright, I guess I’m losing my gay bar virginity then.”

Louis snorts, and Harry hadn’t even really meant it as a joke, but then they’re both laughing like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

*

“Niall, this is _wicked_.”

“Isn’t it, mate?”

Harry snaps a photo of Louis staring up at the ceiling of the Paris Opera House, exhilaration plain on his face. The long column of his neck is exposed, and Harry definitely has absolutely no desire to kiss it, none whatsoever.

He turns away, looks up at the ceiling himself. “You like Chagall? I thought you hated art.”

“I mean, I do hate art. Yeah, kind of. But like, look at that chandelier. Look at all of this,” he says, spreading his arms wide and accidentally knocking into Harry’s arm. “He painted all of this. It's just like in the film. Just like how I always pictured it. It’s gorgeous.”

Louis had confessed a childhood obsession with the film _Phantom of the Opera_ to Niall the other day at the pub, and this turned out to be the surprise Niall had mentioned: a private tour of the whole place. Apparently Niall has friends in high places.

“Okay, okay, show me to the Phantom’s Box!” Louis orders, spinning on his heel. “I’ve always wanted to see if it’s true that you can kind of sense him in there. Let’s go.” He's a little bit bossy, and Harry might be a tiny bit in love with it.

*

The bar is dark and crowded, dance music thumping and multi-colored lights flashing in every direction.  “So, what do you think so far?” Louis asks, looking around. “Living up to all your expectations that you had as a baby gay?”

“A what?” Harry sputters around the straw of his drink.

“A baby gay.” He says it casually, like if it’s a term everyone knows. Harry just stares at him. “You know. When you realized you were gay and you were figuring things out. A baby gay.”

“Think you made that one up, mate. But I like the idea all the same,” Harry says, and he takes another sip of his caipirinha. This is possibly the strongest drink he's ever tasted. _Wow._ It’s probably not the best idea for Harry to be drinking such a strong drink in this environment, surrounded by gorgeous, sweaty men grinding up on each other in time to the music, the most beautiful one right by his side with a casual hand on his waist that’s probably not even intentional but Harry still cannot stop fucking focusing on...

He shakes his head, realizing that Louis is just staring at him, waiting for a real answer. “Anyway, no, never had much interest in gay bars, I guess. Never needed to, really. Once I was in London I was with that guy I mentioned, and again, he never really liked going to them, and I just…” He trails off, leaving the rest open to interpretation. He’s not really sure what else can be said without telling the whole story, and he doesn’t want to do anything to pull the smile of Louis’ face. He wants him to be happy always, because when Louis smiles the corners of his eyes crinkle up and Harry likes that a lot.

“Got it. The sad story. You know, I'm gonna weasel that one out of you someday, Curly.”

Harry laughs, short and almost without humor. “I'm sure you will. Just not tonight.”

*

Thirty minutes later and Harry’s wishing he had chosen tonight to tell Louis the story. Maybe then Louis would still be here by his side, instead of standing over by the bar talking to some bloke with dark hair who’s making ridiculous gestures. For his part, Louis looks a little bored, but he’s also leaning closely into the bloke in what seems to be an attempt to hear him better. It’s not that Harry is _jealous_ , because  Louis isn’t his to claim, but it’s just that he’d only left for a moment to go to the loo and had come back to find Louis talking to this tall, attractive, _clearly-interested-in-Louis_ bloke. This might be Harry’s first time at a gay bar, but he knows what pure attraction looks like.

He goes over to the bar and gets another drink, just for something to do, for something to focus on other than the fact that this other bloke is getting all of the attention from Louis that Harry is so craving. Shit, he’s been craving this attention from him since the moment he walked into their joint hotel room and spotted him facing out the window (he’s been craving this attention before he even knew his _name,_ for God’s sakes). Shit, shit, shit. This is all shit. Yes, Harry definitely needs another one of those drinks he can barely even pronounce at this level of intoxication.

A few men attempt to start conversation with Harry,  but he just brushes each one off and goes back to looking at Louis. It’s a physical compulsion at this point. He can’t stop looking at him. The way he holds himself is mesmerizing, all delicate movement and sharp angles even as he’s leaning his hip against the bar. Harry could stare at him all day.

_Come on, Lou, just brush him off_. _Brush. Him. Off._

He doesn’t. Instead, he leans into the guy just as he puts a hand on Louis' forearm and just leaves it there. Why is Louis letting this man he’s known for no more than ten minutes touch him like that? God, Harry really needs to get a grip.

It’s stupid, he knows it’s stupid. Louis isn’t his. Harry hasn’t held claim to anyone since Andrew, and that’s been over for months. And even then, he never felt like...like this, like he does now.

He sips his drink, again just for something to do, but this time he misses the straw because he’s too busy staring at Louis. He mouths around for it, and he’s just finding the straw when Louis looks over to him. He must look like a bit of a freak, but he doesn’t care because Louis is making eye contact, Louis is smiling, and then.

_And then._

He goes back to talking to the tall bloke as if nothing happened.

Harry wants to scream, wants Louis to come back and talk to _him_ , pay attention to _him_ , and he feels like a complete idiot for feeling like this. Louis isn’t his, he _knows_ it, and yet. There’s a stupid feeling of jealousy burning a hole in his chest and he can’t help but remember what Niall said at the pub.

_You look at him like you’re a little bit in love with him._

He doesn’t though. Does he? Harry’s only ever been in love with one person, and that was Andrew, and he’s not even sure, looking back, that that even counted as love.

But, no, he’s definitely not in love with Louis. You can’t be in love with someone you’ve known for less than a week. It’s just that Harry wants Louis to come back and entertain him so he doesn’t have to stand here in this stupid bar alone. That’s all it is. A random spurt of social anxiety or the like. Yeah.

It’s fine. He’s fine.

*

Louis comes back ten minutes later, giddy and touchy and more than a little tipsy. Harry stamps down the relief he feels and instead lets Louis hug him, lets him apologize for getting pulled away (“that bloke, he just wouldn’t stop talking about footie, and you know how I get when someone brings up United”) and tells himself he’s just glad he’s no longer standing awkwardly by himself.

That’s why the relief has settled in his bones, that’s the only reason.

*

Louis' voice is the first thing he hears when he wakes the next morning. “Harold, your phone. Shut off your fucking phone, would you?”

“Huh -- what?” He says blearily, rubbing his eyes as he sits up and turns away from the window just in time to see Louis sitting up to grab Harry’s phone and toss it at him. Harry catches it with a blink, the phone vibrating in his hand. He really fucking hates that stupid Marimba ringtone, if he’s being honest.

“Answer your goddamn fucking phone before I throw it out the goddamn fucking window,” Louis mumbles angrily before turning over and throwing a pillow over his head to muffle the sound.

It had been such a nice dream, Harry thinks airily. It was him and Louis, and they were waking up in bed, but the words Louis was whispering were a hundred times sweeter and sexier than the reality of this  morning’s grumbling.

The phone rings again in his palm. _Oh, right._

“Hello?” Harry answers, sitting up fully in bed and letting the blanket pool around his waist.

“Harry, you would do well to answer the phone the first time I call, instead of forcing me to call you a second time,” the voice on the line says, and -- oh, it’s Simon. His editor. He sounds a bit like Professor Snape, all deep and dark and foreboding; that’s all Harry can think of when he hears his voice. It’s a bit funny, actually, that comparison, because his name is Harry and Harry hated Professor Snape and Harry kind of hates his editor a tiny bit and -- _anyway_.

He opens his mouth to apologize when Simon barrels on, continuing to tell Harry what to do, just as he always has.. After a few minutes of rambling on that only exacerbates his pre-existing migraine, he continues, “Anyway, I’m calling to find out how the story is going. Do you need any help with anything?”

“Uh, no, I think it’s going well. We’ve been to a number of places, Sacré Coeur, the Louvre, Ladurée, a handful of pubs. Got some good shots, I think.”

“Okay, well send them over to me the first chance you get, I want to see them and see if you need to redo anything.”

He talks for a few more minutes, and then just as Harry thinks he’s about to let him go, he speaks again. “Hey, Styles, I didn’t forget about that job you applied for. You’ve got a good eye. We like what we’ve seen so far, we just need solid proof that you have what it takes for us. So please, send us the best stuff you’ve got.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, yes. You got it, Simon. I’ll get them to you immediately.”

“Thanks, Harry,” he says, his voice softer, a little more benevolent. “And hey, any trouble with that Tomlinson kid? I know he can be a bit of a prickly pain in the ass, but honestly, he’s good at what he does.”

Harry looks over to Louis then, just a lump at the moment, the blanket pulled up over his head. _Shit, probably should’ve gone outside for this call. Whoops._

“No,” Harry says softly. “No trouble at all.”

Simon hangs up then and Harry finally gives into the pressure in his bladder, getting up and going to the loo. When he returns, Louis is sitting up and scrolling through his phone.

“Morning,” he says, his smile bright. He looks a little tired, like he’s hungover from last night and didn’t get quite enough sleep, but he’s so soft, his hair mussed all over the place and his t-shirt falling off his shoulder to expose a bit of tanned skin. He quite possibly is the most beautiful thing Harry’s ever seen.

“Morning, Lou. Sorry about the phone call.”

“Not your fault, is it?” Louis rasps. His voice makes Harry flash back to the dream that got interrupted, and nope, he does not need to be thinking about that.

“All the same, I’m sorry. It was Simon, he wanted to know how things were going.”  


“Ah, Simon,” Louis says, putting down his phone and sitting up straight. “Not necessarily the biggest fan of the man, if I’m being honest. But hey, he pays the bills, right?”

Harry nods. He wants to ask Louis why Simon wanted to know if he was giving him any trouble, but he's not sure how to broach the subject. He supposes Louis has kind of told him himself -- the two don't see eye to eye, clearly.

“Wants me to send him a couple photos, see how they’re looking,” Harry says. “Will you help me pick?”

Louis nods and pushes over, pats the space on the bed beside him, a clear invitation to join him. His shirt has slipped down a bit and left a collarbone exposed in its wake, all smooth skin and delicate angles. Harry is consumed by the sudden need to trace it with his tongue, nip it with his teeth.

His next thought is that he really needs to put on a shirt of his own; sitting shirtless on a bed next to a sleepy Louis Tomlinson is a personal challenge that he will certainly fail.

Once he’s wearing a shirt, some old worn thing from his first year living in the uni halls, he crawls in next to Louis and opens his laptop.

“Nice background,” Louis says, and Harry tenses.

“It’s from my first year at uni,” he says quickly. “They had all these therapy dogs one day at our exams, and I took a few photos of them. Keeps me calm sometimes even still.” His face flushes.

Louis lays a hand on Harry’s forearm, much like the bloke had done to him in the club last night. The difference is that Harry doesn't want Louis to pull away, wants to hold onto his warm touch as long as he can. “Relax, Hazza, it's cute. Wasn't mocking.”

Harry flushes again. “Sorry. Andrew -- my uh, my ex, said it was dumb. And some of my mates, they used to make fun of me for it, but…anyway.”

Louis looks at him, pulls back a bit to look him directly in the eyes. Harry feels himself freeze, stays entirely still. “Haz, if you wanted to go out and pose with your mates on Abbey Road while wearing feather boas and take a photo every single day and have a rotating background screen of all the photos, that’d be perfectly fine. I don’t see what’s wrong with a bunch of cute puppies as your background. They’re adorable, aren’t they?”

Harry laughs despite himself, feels himself relax. “They are. I won a first year photography competition for this photo, actually.”

“See? You’re talented, we all know it. And those people are pricks, absolute wankers who don’t support your talent. You do good work, Harry, you deserve to be proud of it.”

“You haven’t even seen much of my work.” Harry scoffs, body still a little tense.

“I’ve seen a few things,” he protests. “I've seen enough.”

Harry stays quiet, so used to having people think his photography passion is stupid, a waste of a uni education.

Louis picks up his tea cup and settles in against him then. They’re shoulder to shoulder, two layers of thin cotton separating their bare shoulders. Harry tells himself it’s just so that they can both see the screen properly; there’s nothing more to it. “Go on, show me the photos.”

*

Twenty minutes later, they’ve chosen twelve photos to send to Simon. They have compiled a mix of  cliche photos that people expect to see in travel magazines,the Louvre pyramid and the Mona Lisa and the spire of Notre Dame, but also some that Louis referred to as his ‘artsy’ photos: a woman walking a tiny poodle along the Seine, a pile of books on a shelf at Shakespeare and Company, Louis silhouetted against the sunset at Sacré Coeur.

“They’re perfect, Haz.”

<< >>

Louis considers himself a perfectly rational person. He’s always prided himself on his sense of logic, his ability to see something and envision the final product, his knowledge of how to act in certain situations to achieve the outcome he wants. It’s part of what makes him a great writer; he’s able to identify patterns and figure out how things all come together to culminate in a finished product. He’s generally pretty good at dealing with people, too -- he knows when to laugh, when to crack a joke, when to give them a hug. When it comes to Harry, though, he thinks he has lost all sense of rational thought, of normal behavior.

Louis is an idiot.

He’s somehow gone and developed a crush on his _co-worker_ , of all people, and that is something he just shouldn’t have done.

_You can’t control who you fall in love with, love_ , he remembers his mum telling him when he was in secondary school and had a desperate, stupid crush on a boy who turned out to be straight. _It hurts sometimes, but it’s not in your control._

He’s been in Paris for less than a week but he knows, feels it suddenly, intensely, that he’s got a huge, ridiculous crush on Harry. He thinks it’s been brewing since the first day, when Harry bought him _Le Petit Prince_ for absolutely no reason at all other than the fact that he wanted to make Louis smile. But he knew he was well and truly done for the other night, when Harry knocked into him and nearly yanked his towel off and all Louis wanted to do was to surge up and press Harry against the wall, kiss him hard and never let him go. And then this morning, Harry standing in the middle of the room shirtless after his phone call. Louis didn’t know whether to scream or cry from relief when he’d finally put on a shirt.

He’d wasted a half hour last night talking to a French bloke with poor English to get his mind off Harry, to see if it was just the attention, the presence of an attractive guy, the potential of maybe getting laid. Absolutely no luck; the bloke was fit as fuck, sure, but there wasn't that feeling of ‘I want to fuck your brains out and then have you make me pancakes in the morning’ like there was with Harry.

So, no, nothing about this is rational. He’s just going to keep drinking so he can stop thinking about it.

“Tommo, hand over the bottle. No more,” Niall insists, sitting up from where he’s laying on the blanket to grab the bottle of wine from Louis' hand. Louis turns away, takes one long gulp that he swallows while trying not to laugh. “Give it to me!”

Louis finally allows Niall to peel the bottle away from his grasp, and he lies down to look up at the stars, his head by Harry’s feet.

“Told you he’s a bit of a menace, Louis,” Liam says with a laugh.

“Do you ever think about space?” Harry asks abruptly, breaking the silence that’s fallen among them. “Like, aliens, or anything?”

“I mean, sometimes. Like, we don’t really know what’s out there, do we?” Niall asks.

Harry sits up abruptly, folding his legs like a pretzel beneath him as he reaches over Louis and grabs the bottle of wine from Niall and takes a long swig. “I mean, we could. You never know. There could be something out there. There has to be. Right?”

Louis loses track of the conversation then, preferring to listen to the melodic tone of Harry’s voice as he talks about the stars, trades facts about the constellations with Niall like they’re trading cards and -- goddamn, he is so gone for him, so positively _dumb_ for this boy. He closes his eyes, arms folded behind his head in an uncomfortable attempt to make a pillow for himself, and continues to listen.

“Lou, wake up,” Harry says suddenly with a gasp, nudging him in the arm with his hand a few minutes later. “Wake up, look!”

Louis sits up with a start, blinking twice as he pushes himself back a bit on the blanket. He looks around, sees the four of them in a circle, the snacks and the three empty bottles of wine in the middle of them, but that’s not what Harry’s gesturing for him to notice. It’s the Eiffel Tower sparkling, the collective gasp of the crowd, the way the twinkling reminds him of lights strung up on the tree for his birthday, for Christmas. It’s what they’ve come to see, why they’ve been lounging on the Champ de Mars for the past two hours, getting proper tipsy and full of bread and cheese.

“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” Louis says, and Harry just looks at him, nodding. The others make a sound of agreement but Louis barely hears it, because there’s a moment where he and Harry are just staring at each other and Louis had been talking about Paris, about the Eiffel Tower, he _had_ , he swears it, but he realizes that in that moment he was talking about Harry as well. He sounds like a fucking romance novel, and he absolutely hates it, but there is simply nothing he can do about it.

“Yeah. It is. It is absolutely magical here.”

*

Twenty-five minutes later, Niall and Liam decide that it’s time for them to head out, citing early morning wake-ups for work as an excuse.

“We can't all have jobs where we travel the world and wake up at noon,” Niall says, punching Louis in the arm. It’s probably weird behavior for people who’ve only known each other a few days, but none of them seem to think it’s that strange. They’ve just fallen into it, the four of them, teasing each other and cracking jokes like they’ve known each other for months rather than days.

“Oh, shove off,” Louis complains as he hugs Liam goodbye. “We work plenty hard.”

“We’ll see you in a day or two?” Liam asks, and Harry nods.

“We’ll come to the pub and make a plan. And return the blanket to you. Cheers.”

They’re gone then, taking the food rubbish with them. Louis and Harry sit back down on the blanket and Harry picks up the remaining bottle of wine, taking a long swig before handing it off to Louis. There’s half a bottle left; they might as well finish it off. Harry’s drunk by now, Louis is sure of it. He’d been mumbling and talking nonsense for the past twenty minutes, and Louis suspects that’s part of the reason the others left; he’d gotten too hard to make sense of, slurring his words and laughing at his own unintelligible jokes.

Honestly, Harry’s jokes are kind of unintelligible on a good day, what with his slow drawl and the fact that he thinks of jokes that sound like ones Louis’ sisters would tell, and they’re in primary school. Louis laughs at all of Harry’s jokes anyway, even when they’re terrible, just because he likes to see him smile, especially when he knows he might be the reason for his beautiful smile.

Drunk Harry is an affectionate Harry, Louis soon learns, as Harry polishes off the bottle with a final gulp, pushes it off to the side, and lies down on the blanket, legs crossed at the ankles.  

“S’nice, innit?” He says, speech a little slurred and eyes glassy.

“Mmm, it is,” Louis agrees as he lies down next to Harry.

“So that constellation there is The Plough,” Harry says softly, apropos of absolutely nothing except for the fact that they’re both looking at the stars. He’s pointing, but to Louis they all just look like little dots.

“Where?”

“See the one that’s like a spoon with a handle? Like three stars and then three others just a bit above them, all in a line? In America they call it the Big Dipper, it’s a bit more appropriate, I think.”

“Where?” Louis asks again. Harry shifts over so they're shoulder to shoulder, picks up his hand, grabbing him by the wrist, and points.

“Just…right...there.” He guides Louis' hand and then traces the shape, over and up and over again. “You see it?”

“I do,” Louis murmurs. “It’s brilliant.”

“It is,” Harry agrees. “I’m so fascinated by the sky, by the stars. Almost thought about becoming an astronomer, but that’s even more ridiculous than being a photographer. At least that pays the bills. Sometimes.”

Louis leans over and looks at Harry, making sure Harry’s looking at him before he speaks. “Harry, listen to me. You’re a great photographer. I know you know that. You can do this, okay?”

Harry nods, almost imperceptibly. When he speaks again, his voice sounds raspy, like he’s got a sore throat or is about to cry. “You asked me, the other night, to tell you about my first love.”

Louis nods, waits for him to continue. He's not sure where this is going and he's even less sure that he _wants_ to hear it, but the worried look on Harry’s face says this is something he needs to get out.

“His name was Andrew,” Harry says with a long sigh. “I was eighteen when we met, had just moved to London. I met him at the LGBTQ+ society meeting, the first one of the year, genuinely the first week of uni. He was…well, he was beautiful. I mean, just...inside and out, I thought he was absolutely lovely. We got along right from the start, the two of us. I’d never met anyone like him, so proud of who he was, someone who didn’t take shit from anyone.” He smiles a sad little smile, but his eyes are bright as he continues, speaking even slower than usual.

“It wasn’t like that in Holmes Chapel, you know? Like, I’d messed around with guys before, a few of them. Me being gay was kind of an open secret there, like, everyone kinda knew but it was never talked about. No one asked, and I never said anything. Everything was behind closed doors, hushed whispers of ‘ _You won’t tell anyone, right?_ ’ and lots of tiptoeing around. It was all pretty tame, but still, never got to take anyone out properly and see if I really liked them. But Andrew, he was something else. So...so _free._ He made me feel like I could be free too.”

There’s a long pause, and Louis feels his gut twist a little bit at the nostalgic fondness in Harry’s voice. It’s like, Louis knows Harry’s heart is probably breaking even as he has to retell this, but it seems like Harry’s remembering the good times as well as he tells this particular part of the story. Louis isn’t sure he _wants_ to hear it, doesn’t want to know about the person that broke Harry’s heart, but he encourages him to continue anyway.

“What happened?” He asks softly, and Harry turns on his side to face him. They’re only inches apart; if Louis leaned forward he could just place a kiss on Harry’s forehead no problem, or on his cheek, or on his lips… He snaps out of it and stays where he is, refocusing on Harry’s words.

“We were friends for a long while, best friends for months, and then, one day, he just asked me out. I said sure, why not? He was lovely, you know? He made me laugh and he was one of my best friends; why not give him a shot? So we went out, and then we started dating, and we fell in love. It felt like it was meant to be.”

He sighs, blinks once. Blinks a second time, closes his eyes for so long that Louis begins to wonder if he’s fallen asleep. When he opens them again, he stares straight into Louis' eyes and doesn’t look away.

“He was my first everything. For everything that mattered, anyway. And for a long while, it was good. Really good. We moved in together and I thought things were going well. Until one day I woke up and realized that I’d lost myself. I didn’t see my old mates anymore, I didn’t go out to pubs on the weekends because he didn’t like pubs, I couldn’t even remember if _Grease_ was my favorite movie or if it was his. Did I like strawberries on top of my pancakes or did he? It was like I didn’t even know who I was anymore.”

He blinks again, three quick blinks as Louis lets out a sigh and gives him a sympathetic smile. When he speaks again, Harry’s voice is slow as always, even more so from the alcohol. Louis can tell he’s determined to tell the story all the way through though.

“I realized that he was changing me, trying to make me be who he wanted me to be. It wasn’t worth it. I was supposed to have all this freedom in London, the freedom to be myself and to do what I wanted to do, just like I’d always wanted, but I was squandering it in our shitty flat that he didn’t even let my friends visit. I only did things for his approval, not because I wanted to. I just felt…trapped. We were about to graduate and he wanted me to move to another flat with him, one in central London that I couldn’t afford. He told me I’d never make a living doing photography, told me that for years, and yet he expected me to love him, do things for him, wanted me to be his househusband. Just expected me to adore him. And for a few years, I did. But then it just all became too much. So, I broke up with him, just before graduation. He went into a panic, absolutely freaked. I had to move in with my mate Ed for the last few weeks of uni.”

Louis just watches his face, not really sure what to say. He has no experience with this stuff. Like, just absolutely no knowledge of how to handle someone's heartbreak. Sure, he's had friends go through breakups before, but the general attitude of most of his friends had been that to get over someone you need to get under someone else. As attracted as he is to Harry, it doesn’t seem like that’s the best answer here.

“So, that’s my sob story. Told you it was sad. But, that’s what happened. And now, here I am, trying to piece my life back together.”

A tear falls down from Harry’s cheek, and he leans over and clings to Louis as a few more tears fall. Suddenly he’s shuddering in Louis' arms, and Louis is at an absolute loss for how to handle this situation. He lets Harry cling onto him like a baby koala, sits up and shifts them both so they’re in a more seated position. Harry’s body is wracked with sobs and Louis isn’t quite sure what brought this on but he notices that Harry’s hair smells really good. Which, yes, makes him a terrible person for noticing at a time like this. But what is he supposed to do when he’s just pressed right up against his nose? He can’t just stop himself from smelling anything.

But Harry. Harry, who is currently in his arms, crying.

“It’s okay, Hazza. Don’t cry, you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re safe,” Louis says, stroking his hair slowly. “Harry, look at me, please, look at me.” He brings a hand to cup Harry’s jaw and he’s suddenly aware of just how close they are to one another, just how little effort it would take for Louis to press his lips to Harry’s.

He knows it would be wrong, their first kiss can’t happen when Harry is drunk and crying, so vulnerable in his arms (and _fuck_ , a first kiss can’t happen at _all_ , they’re _co-workers_ for fuck’s sake, and that is all...fuck, Louis is in way too deep, and he absolutely knows it). He settles instead for wiping a few tears off Harry’s cheek with his thumb and is relieved to see when he’s finally stopped crying and instead is just staring at Louis quietly. They’re just looking at each other for a few long moments, moments in which all Louis can think of is a sweet, barking laugh and a book bought at a bookseller and deep green eyes.

“Lou, I want…” Harry whispers, and doesn’t finish the thought. Louis' breath hitches when he sees that Harry’s moved to close the gap between them, has let his eyes drift shut, is breathing just over Louis' lips.

_He’s going to kiss me,_ Louis thinks. _Oh God, we’re about to kiss_. And then -- nope.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Harry says, wiping his eyes as he pulls away. Louis opens his eyes with a start, realizes that Harry has not, in fact kissed him, but rather is stumbling to his feet and picking up the remaining wine bottle. “I shouldn’t have -- I’m sorry,” Harry continues in a rush, and Louis isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for, the deep confession or the almost kiss or the whole thing, but he stands and folds up the blanket anyway.

Harry’s still drunk, so Louis leads him to the road and pulls up the Uber app on his phone. He seems to already have forgotten his apologies from just minutes ago, because he’s got his arm thrown around Louis' neck and is angling his body in a way that must be uncomfortable, just so he can rest his head against Louis' shoulder.

He falls asleep against Louis in the cab, tucked up against his body.

*

_I almost kissed Harry last night_ , is the first thing Louis thinks when he wakes up the next morning. _Oh God, Harry and I almost kissed_.

He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling, heart racing at the memory. He stays very still, trying not to wake Harry before he’s had a chance to calm down. _Get it together, Tommo_.

He closes his eyes again and he can remember the way that Harry’s breath had ghosted over his lips last night, how his deep green eyes had looked into Louis’ and how in that moment Louis had felt like he was willing to give Harry the whole world, if he’d just ask for it. He snaps out of the memory as he opens his eyes with the realization that his head is _pounding_ ; he’s too old to drink a whole bottle of wine and feel fine just a few hours later.

He chances a glance over at Harry’s bed and sees him curled up in a ball under the blanket, facing the window. He’s presumably asleep, though he could just as easily be faking it to avoid Louis. Fuck, this is _so_ awkward.

He rolls over and tries to go back to sleep, but gives up after a few minutes, as it is clearly not happening. His brain is racing, a constant stream of _we almost kissed, we almost kissed, we almost kissed_. He can’t focus on anything else, not on the article or on any of the things they’re supposed to do today. Not when Harry’s ten feet away from him, taking up all his brainspace, invading his thoughts.

He needs to get away.

Louis looks at the clock and sees that it’s just past seven am. It’s still early. They’ve planned to go to the Catacombs, but they don’t open until ten, so he has plenty of time for a run. Maybe it’ll help clear up this mess in his head.

As quietly as he can, he rolls out of bed and rifles through his suitcase in search of exercise clothes and trainers. When he has what he needs, he ducks into the toilet and changes quickly. Seven minutes later, he’s out the door and making his way to the banks of the Seine.

*

Forty-five minutes later he’s sweaty and panting as he lets himself into the room with his key. His face is flushed and his heart is racing, but he does feel better. His mind feels clear, and he feels ready to take on the day. At least, until he sees that Harry’s sitting on the edge of his bed, shoulders stiff and posture tense. Louis pulls his earbuds out of his ears, wrapping them around his phone to keep his hands busy as he tries to calm his heart rate.

“Uh, morning,” Louis greets. It hits him again, _we almost kissed, we almost kissed, we almost kissed._

Harry’s head snaps to him and his whole body sags into the mattress. The action looks a little like relief. “Louis,” Harry breathes. “Hi. I woke up and I thought...I wondered where you’d gone. Thought maybe something was wrong.”

Louis takes a few steps forward until he’s in the center of the room. He’s very aware that he’s just ran four miles and is disgusting and probably dripping sweat on the carpet. By contrast, Harry looks so... _soft_ , dressed in jeans and a jumper and socked feet. His hair is messy from sleep and he's got pillow creases on his left cheek. He looks impossibly young like this, just woken up and rubbing the sleep dust out of his eyes, like he’s a 19-year-old boy instead of the 23-year-old man he really is.

“I’m sorry,” Louis apologizes, his tone honest. “I really didn’t mean to worry you.” He’s worried it sounds forced, like he’s trying too hard to cover up for how awkward he really feels.

He had plenty of time to think on his run, and he’s not sorry about last night. He didn’t do anything wrong. So what if he wants to push Harry onto his bed, peel his clothes off and have his way with him?  Sure, Harry’s his co-worker, but they’re both adults. They’re both attracted to each other. There’s nothing wrong with that, it’s only natural.

He doesn't just want the sex bit though, even if that's in the forefront of his mind, Harry sleepy and pliant in front of him. No, he wants to cuddle Harry at night and feed him strawberries while they lay on the grass in his back garden, wants to take him to the cinema and to dinner and to hold his hand. And that's- - that's _weird_. Because Louis doesn't _do_ relationships, has never seen any real need for them. Why go through all that effort just to get laid? Isn't it just as easy to buy a bloke a drink in a club? So what if it's a different one every night and they're not in tune with Louis’ body? The challenge is part of the fun.

Louis is about to ask how Harry’s doing, wants to try to open himself up a bit emotionally, to show Harry that he wants him. And then Harry rises to his feet.

“It’s okay, just glad you’re okay,” he says as he takes three quick steps toward Louis. He’s just a foot away now, and once again Louis wants to kiss him. Harry grins, that smug fucker. “Now go shower, you smell awful.” He sidesteps Louis’s attempted smack and heads for the door. “I’ll meet you downstairs for breakfast in 20 minutes?”

“See you then.”

*

“Jesus, look at this fucking line,” Louis huffs when they emerge from the metro and get to the entrance of the Catacombs. “I thought you said it opened at ten?”

“It does, yeah,” Harry confirms, looking around to make sure that they are indeed walking to the end of the line for the Catacombs and not some other attraction. “I definitely did not expect it to be this long.”

Ordinarily this would be Louis’ cue to make one of the sexual innuendos that he’s so well known for. Something tells him it would ruin the moment, though, so he refrains. “However will we pass the time?” he asks slyly.

They end up playing a modified version of their Truth or Dare game. There aren’t many dares they can do while waiting in a half-hour line, which means that it quickly devolves into them trading stories about growing up. Louis learns that Harry has known how to ride a horse since he was a little boy, and Harry learns that Louis once got sent home from school for convincing his classmates to switch around their teacher’s classroom seating arrangement when she was in the toilet one day. Harry confesses that he once forged his mum’s signature on a bad school report, and Louis shares that he had the lead in every musical in secondary school.

Finally, they reach the entrance, where they pay the fee and descend a winding stone staircase that reaches far underground. “Hope you’re not claustrophobic, Hazza,” advises Louis, “though I guess it’s a bit late if you are.”

“Uh, no, I think I’ll be fine,” Harry answers with a cheeky smile. “Better hope that you’re okay though, you look a bit pale.” Louis smirks. For how completely neurotic and freaked out he felt this morning, he’s relieved that things don’t seem to have changed much between them. Sure, there’s still that part of him that thinks he _does_ want things to change, so he can do all those things to him he was fantasizing about this morning...

Louis snaps out of his internal monologue and takes note of their surroundings. They’re in a circular room with a low ceiling, and all around them are human bones. They're piled on top of one another, thousands and thousands of them stacked up. At eye level sits a row of skulls, sandwiched in between all the bones. The pattern continues like this all the way around. He might even find it a bit artistic, actually, if he could let go of the fact that every skull belonged at one point to a living, breathing human.

“Just strange to see all these bones. People like us,” Louis comments. “Bet they never thought they’d end up down here, with us staring at them.”

“Six million people,” Harry reads off a pamphlet he’d picked up above ground. “Six million people are buried down here, and most of their bones were actually transported from other places.”

“Bit creepy, innit?” There’s a faint sound of running water from behind the walls. The ground beneath them is concrete with a thin overlay of sand, and he can hear every footstep. People are all around them, but Louis stays tight to Harry’s side.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” Harry shivers, and they continue walking. The air feels damp, and Louis isn’t claustrophobic, but he knows they’ll be down here for at least an hour, and he’s already missing the warmth above ground.

_‘Arrête! c'est ici l'empire de la mort!_ ’ reads an inscription just above the doorway. He stops to let Harry take a photo.

“What does that mean?” Louis asks Harry. “You said you know a bit of French, right?” Harry opens his mouth to answer, but someone speaks before he can.

“Stop! This is the empire of the dead!” Louis jumps at the booming voice behind him. He turns to see a tall bloke behind him, grinning wickedly at Louis’ reaction. “Relax, mate, they’re already dead, no one can hurt you down here.”

Louis tries to manage a smile. “I -- uh, thanks, mate.”

“Welcome,” the man says creepily as he pushes past them and makes his way down the tunnel.

“Bit skittish, are you?” Harry asks in a low, teasing tone as they walk ahead. “Wait, are you _scared_ of this?”

Louis scoffs. “No! For fuck’s sake Harold, of course not! Like the guy said, they’re all dead anyway, what can they do to me?” Truthfully, he is a bit spooked, but no one is to know that, _especially_ not this beautiful boy with the curly hair and piercing green eyes who he _almost kissed last night._ He still can’t stop thinking about it.

And when he thinks of it that way, suddenly he’s a lot less scared of the dark tunnels and more scared of how he feels about Harry.

They continue walking as Harry takes photos of the skulls. They stop to listen to an official tour guide telling people about the rest of the tunnels, the ones that aren’t technically open to the public. There are these people called ‘Cataphiles’ who travel through the rest of the tunnel network, often risking their own life in search of adventure. They have to crawl through tiny passageways and knock through limestone and hope that they’ll be able to find an exit when they need it. It’s all illegal, of course, but it’s a well-known fact that they have extravagant parties down there.

“Don’t think I could do that,” Harry comments as they break away from the tour and follow the path down another winding alley.

“Not up for getting caught by the police, Hazza?”

“Not up for crawling through a space the size of a small child, thanks. Ceilings are low enough here as it is.” Louis looks up, and yeah, there’s probably less than a foot of space between Harry’s head and the ceiling.

“I guess you’re fairly tall, yeah,” Louis comments.

“And you’re fairly short,” Harry retorts, a teasing smile on his face.

“Oi! I am not! I am perfectly big, thank you very much,” protests Louis.

“Oh, you are, are you?” Harry asks, but his voice is low, a little heated, conveying that he might be asking about more than just Louis’ height. Louis feels himself flush. He bumps Harry with his shoulder.

“Shut up.”

They keep walking, and a bit later they lose each other when a boisterous American family with four kids barges through and separates them. Louis wanders by himself, hoping he’ll catch up to Harry soon. When he spots him standing alone, his back to the path as he stares intently at a sculpture made entirely of limestone, he knows this is his opportunity.

He creeps up close to Harry and whisper-shouts into his ear. “Boo!”

Harry jumps so high that his head nearly hits the ceiling. “Oh my God, you just scared the _shit_ out of me. Thought you were a damn ghost.”

Louis is laughing as he wraps Harry in his arms for a hug. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says as he releases  Harry from his grip. Harry’s laughing too, but Louis can’t help but notice the glint in his eyes that communicates that he’s already scheming ways to get him back for the scare. The playful sparkle in his eyes makes Louis’ heart skip half a beat, like it already knows Louis wants to make Harry look like that for days to come.

“You’re not, you’re not at all,” Harry says, shoving Louis away half-heartedly. “Come on, can we hurry up and get out of here?”

The Catacombs aren’t inherently scary anymore, now that they’ve been down here for a half hour and Louis realizes there likely won’t be any actual running into ghosts. All the same, he pulls Harry close to him under the pretense of safety. Obviously. “Listen, you never know when I might jump out and scare you again,” he warns.

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, is that it?” Harry jokes.

“That’s exactly it,” Louis confirms, holding onto Harry’s upper arm in the dark passageway so he doesn’t slip. Or at least, that was his excuse. “The real question is, which one am I?”

Harry just laughs. “I haven’t decided yet. We’ll have to see.”

He smiles and something about it makes Louis blush. He bites his lip and looks back at Harry, their eyes locked as Harry regards him with a strange look. It’s not uncomfortable, though. Louis expected things to be uncomfortable between them after last night, but it’s a relief that they can still joke around. The sexual tension is still there, it’s amplified, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s only when he’s jostled by a girl trying to get by that he looks away.

“Should we go back to join the land of the living?” Louis asks when the moment’s broken. “Let’s get out of here.”

<< >>

“Come on, Harold, you’re going to buy me lunch,” Louis says as he drags Harry by the hand when they get back above ground. He keeps his hand in Harry’s as they walk, until Louis stops short in front of a restaurant. _We’re holding hands, we’re holding hands_ , Harry thinks, feeling like a fifteen-year-old, but he doesn’t dare pull away. Louis’ hand is warm in his, but not sweaty. His hand is so much smaller than Harry’s, but he _likes_ that. It feels natural, like they fit just right.

“This one?” Louis asks, and when Harry nods Louis drops his hand and guides him into the restaurant. Harry thinks Louis has a hand on his back, thinks he feels gentle pressure there, but he could just be imagining it. God, he really needs to get a grip and figure himself out.

There’s only a few other patrons in the place, and they’re seated at a table next to a window that looks onto the street, perfect for people watching. Harry laughs as a toddler encounters a dog with great excitement and watches her face fall when the dog’s owner pulls him away.

They order a bottle of wine despite Harry’s feeble protests (“Hazza, it’s just gone past noon and we’re on holiday, I think we can splurge a little bit”) and at Harry’s recommendation, each order a _croque monsieur_ , a ham and cheese sandwich on brioche bread with cheese on top.

“Have you ever seen so much cheese on one sandwich?” Louis asks, and for a moment Harry’s worried that he doesn’t like it and he’s going to send it back. “This is brilliant.” He moans when he takes his first bite, and Harry swallows hard at the sound.  

Harry tries to answer with a comment in agreement with how good it tastes, but the food’s still in his mouth and Louis can’t make sense of it.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?” Louis jokes as the waitress comes by to refill their water glasses. Louis swallows and laughs.

“She did, yeah, but this is _delicious_ , I’ve never tasted anything so good.”

They spend the rest of the meal alternating between chewing and talking. Louis convinces Harry to have another glass of wine, even though Harry had said he’d stop at one.

“Aw, Harry, come on. We ordered it, do you _really_ want me to drink three glasses?” Louis persuades. “That wouldn’t be fair. Plus, who knows what I might do if I drink that much?” He raises his eyebrows teasingly, menace that he is, and Harry’s not quite sure what to make of that.

Louis is absolutely, without a doubt the most confusing person he has ever met. One minute he’s all teasing and sexual innuendos and the next he’s bashful and uncertain. Harry can’t figure him out, _especially_ after last night.

What he has figured out, though, is that he wants Louis to kiss him. He knew that two days ago, and he knew it last night, and he knows it now. Fuck, part of him knows he’s wanted Louis to kiss him since he first saw him standing next to the window that first day they met. He likes making Louis laugh, whether it’s because of a joke he made or because Louis is making fun of him. He wants to romance him, take him out to dinner and buy him flowers and sweet talk him into his bed. He doesn’t think any of that is going to change any time soon.

He’s not sure if Louis feels the same way. Sure, there were moments at the Catacombs when Louis had looked at him and the air felt heated despite the damp chill, and it seemed undeniable that they  were on the same page. But then there were other times when Harry questioned it -- like, if Louis was really into him, wouldn’t he have made a move by now? Wouldn’t he have kissed Harry this morning, or even last night? Harry thought he’d made himself perfectly clear. Maybe that wasn’t the case.

“Hey, I’m just gonna run to the loo for a sec,” Louis tells Harry, pulling him out of his thoughts. The smile he gives him is bright and blinding. “And then I was thinking, maybe we could go back to the hotel for a bit before we go to the Eiffel Tower? It’s sort of on the way back anyway, and I could use some time to write some stuff out for the article.”

“That’s perfect,” Harry answers with a smile.

It’s just then that the waitress returns with the check. Harry takes it, murmuring a thank you, and, taking advantage of the fact that Louis isn’t here to fight him on it, hands her his credit card. He signs the bill, and she turns to walk away.

“You know,” she says, and he lifts his head as she turns back to him, “you two make a lovely couple. Very beautiful together.”

_A lovely couple_.

_Couple._

Fuck. Because they’re not a couple, but the fact that she thinks they are has to _mean_ something. Maybe she can see the way that Harry’s looking at Louis like he’s more than just a friend, like he’s got a stupid crush. Harry’s probably being really fucking obvious.

This whole thing is a _mess_.

*

Harry’s laying on his bed at the hotel an hour later and scrolling through his photos when he spots one that brings him back to the waitress’ words.

It’s of him and Louis, taken that morning in the line for the Catacombs. The couple behind them, an older woman and her husband visiting from Australia, had asked Louis to take a photo of them. Louis had laughed and pointed at Harry, saying he was the better photographer between the two of them. Harry had rolled his eyes and given him a self-conscious smile, but took the camera from the wife all the same.

When they posed, the husband made a joke and then they were laughing too hard on the first try to get a properly posed photo, which of course often make for the best photos. When he finally got a photo of them, they were over the top thankful.

“Let’s take one of you two!” The woman had insisted, and Harry hadn’t said no.

Harry studies the picture, looks at the curve of his arm around Louis’ shoulder, the way Louis’ hand is gripping his waist. It looks...intimate.

“A beautiful couple,” the waitress had said. He’d wanted to spit out his water in surprise, because, of _course_ they aren't a couple. But, looking at this picture now...well, he supposes he can see why the waitress thought they were.

They fit, the two of them. They _do_ look really good together, just...right.

He looks over at Louis, who’s typing on his laptop, the only sound between them the quick banging on the keys as he pounds out word after word. He’s biting his lip, which Harry has learned by now means he’s stressed out. He watches as Louis runs a hand through his fringe, shaking it off to the side. He doesn’t need to fix it, it looks perfect just as it is.

Not for the first time today, Harry wants to know what's going through his head. He wonders if he’s writing for the article, or keeping a journal, or writing an email to his mum. He has no idea.

He sighs heavily and flips his body around so that he’s laying on his stomach with his head at the bottom of his bed. He swings his feet in the air and crosses his ankles as he scrolls through his photos. He selects a few from the past few days that are worth a second glance, and gets to editing them, quickly fixing the exposure and adjusting the contrast. He sneaks glances at Louis, who’s still staring at his computer, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

Harry frowns, and then turns back to his computer. He flips between two photos, almost identical but each with a different feel. They both show a narrow hallway in the Catacombs. One of them is focused on the skulls in the foreground, the background blurred. The other shows what’s blurred in the first: a couple walking hand in hand into the tunnel, the dim light casting shadows onto the floor, and the foreground blurred. He switches back and forth between them a few times, but he can’t decide which photo he likes better. The one that shows the skulls, or the one that shows the emotions and the darkness.

He looks over at Louis, who’s put his laptop down and is now scrawling something in his black Moleskine, the pen cap still between his teeth. He hesitates, unsure if he should ask his opinion. After all, this article is half Louis’, so he needs to approve the photos too. And he can’t let things remain awkward between them forever.

“Hey, Louis?” He asks, voice hesitant. “Do you have a second?”

Louis’ eyes snap up to him and he drops the notebook. “Yeah, what’s up?”

Harry sits up and pushes his computer to the side. “I just can’t decide between two of these photos, I’m wondering what you think. Do you mind taking a look?”

Harry moves to pass the computer over to Louis, but Louis re-caps the pen with his teeth and drops it to the bed and gets up to sit on the edge of Harry’s bed. “Let’s take a look,” Louis says, setting the computer on his lap with care. Harry flips around to sit next to him, their knees brushing with the motion.

“Okay, so I can’t decide if I want to use this one,” he points to the screen, “or this one. What do you think?”

Louis looks at the two photos, clicking back and forth, much like Harry had done. Louis squints a bit, which pinches his face in a way that shouldn’t give Harry butterflies, but it does all the same.

“I dunno,” he admits. “They look so similar, but they feel...totally different, if that makes any sense. I’m not sure that’s the right description, I usually don’t pick any of the photos.”

“No, no, that’s exactly it!” Harry turns to him, his eyes lighting up. “That’s exactly the issue. And I can’t decide. Which aspect do you think would be better for your write-up?”

“Well, there’s this bit of this photo, which I like,” Louis points to the foreground of the first photo, the one that shows off the skulls. “I think it’s really crisp and, like, moody.”

Harry nods, and then he shifts the screen to the next photo, reaching out to point to the background of it, to the clasped hands of the walking couple. “But this one has this--” Louis’ hand bumps his, because he’s inadvertently tried to point to the same thing.

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, his hand still frozen touching Harry’s. “I know what you mean.”

He moves his hand away after a minute, but it feels like the awkwardness is deflating, like he can breathe a little easier. “Hey, are you done with that other stuff? I feel like the wine’s worn off, maybe we can go to the Eiffel Tower now? We can figure out this photo thing later.”

Louis turns to look at him and he’s so close, his blue eyes focused on Harry’s face. His lips are so pink, just right there, ready for Harry to press his own against them. He breathes in and freezes on the inhale for just a moment, eyes focused on his lips.

“Yeah,” Louis says as he rises to his feet. “We should go.”

*

Harry has always been a chatty guy, was never one to be lost for words growing up. In fact, his parents were told for ten straight years in his parent-teacher conferences that he talked too much and needed to learn to speak only when it was his turn. So, no, he doesn’t often find himself without words. But, right now, getting off the lift that’s just brought them to the top of the Eiffel Tower (Louis had absolutely insisted that he would not be climbing the many many stairs), there are no words to describe what this feels like. For once in his life, he is absolutely speechless.

It’s beautiful. The sun is bright above them, casting light on all of the pale buildings and the gardens below. It’s the whole city stretched out before them, much like the view from Sacré Coeur. Except that this is better, because they’re so much higher up and can see so much more. They really can see _everything_ , the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe and the Tuileries and the Champ de Mars, where just last night Harry had cried his heart out to Louis and they’d nearly kissed.

Maybe he should do that again. He’d ugly cry in front of all these people if it meant that Louis might kiss him.

“Gorgeous, innit?” Louis asks, but the question is clearly rhetorical. As if there could be any other answer but the affirmative, honestly. They step up to the railing in unison, both pressing their faces against the fence as they look out on the Champ de Mars.

“I mean, I’ve seen better,” Harry says dryly. Louis laughs, and it’s light, and it’s airy, and it is without a doubt a sound Harry knows he wants to hear for the rest of his life. It feels as though tension between them has finally cleared; they’d bantered like normal during the metro ride from the hotel and while queuing for the Tower. It feels easy again, like it had from that very first day.

“What, Holmes Chapel has views this good?”

“I mean...there’s an aqueduct. I suppose it’s not _quite_ the same, but it makes for a good Instagram post, especially in black and white.”

“I _knew_ you would have one of those hipster-y instagrams, let me see it,” Louis teases, already reaching into Harry’s back pocket for his phone.

“No! No! Louis, quit it!” Harry protests, hands reaching to stop Louis before he wraps his whole body around Harry to steal his phone. Though, on second thought, being all wrapped up in Louis’ soft, lean arms doesn’t sound like the worst thing ever. He relaxes a bit; Louis is still fighting to get his phone and Harry is not stopping him. “It won’t work here anyway, there’s no wifi.”

“Yeah, okay, fine,” Louis huffs, pulling away. “But back at the hotel, I demand to see this hipster Instagram of yours. I bet it’s just full of artsy photos and flowers and the backs of people’s heads.”

Harry flushes bright red, because that is pretty much an exact description of his Instagram profile. It’s just what he likes, okay?

“Yeah, I knew it, I’m not surprised. You photographers are all the same.” Louis laughs, and he’s shaking his head like he can’t believe it. “I know your type.”

Harry rolls his eyes and bumps Louis’ shoulder with his own. “Come on, I want to go take some very   _artsy_ pictures for my Instagram,” he teases (he’s teasing himself, really, but somehow when he’s with Louis that just doesn’t seem to matter) and drags Louis by the hand through the crowd to see the view from the other side. When they’ve made it through the crowd and released hands (the feeling of Louis’ smaller, impossibly soft hands cradled in his fading far too quickly), he fiddles with his camera’s settings, trying to get a good shot of Trocadéro, the gardens and palace that face the Eiffel Tower.

“You really love this, don’t you?” Louis asks, once he’s taken a few shots. Harry pulls his camera away from his face and focuses his eyes on Louis, who must have been quietly observing him.

“Love what?”

“Photography. Taking pictures, this whole thing.”

“Capturing memories,” Harry adds. “Yeah, I do. Best part of my life, hands down. And the idea that maybe I’ll be able to make a career out of this travel photography thing, well, that’s pretty cool. I mean, _if_ I can make it work...”

“You will, Haz,” Louis says, his voice low, like what he’s saying is a special affirmation reserved just for Harry. “I know it.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks, feeling a glimmer of hope bubble inside him. Maybe he’s not a completely hopeless case after all.

“Yeah,” Louis confirms. “I’ve worked with a lot of people in this business, and most of them are either completely lacking in talent and originality, or they’re good at what they do but they’re arrogant arseholes. Thankfully, you are neither.” He can’t say any more because suddenly he’s shoved to the side by a very pushy man who’s being followed by a bunch of loud tourists. Louis stumbles forward and Harry holds out an arm to catch him.

“Watch it, mate,” Louis yells to the man, but he doesn’t answer, which makes Louis frown. “Maybe he didn’t understand me anyway. Should probably stop expecting everyone here to speak English,” he says to Harry. “I mean, we _are_ in France.”

His hand is still gripping Harry’s forearm from when he’d fallen forward. They seem to realize it at the same time, because Louis gives it a little squeeze and then pulls away. He stays in close to Harry’s space though, the tips of their shoes nearly touching. Louis sticks his tongue out to wet his bottom lip and Harry can’t help but follow the motion, wondering what it would be like to run his own tongue along Louis’ lips, to nip at them and draw moans out of Louis with just his tongue.

A commotion behind them draws their attention away, and they both turn to the sound of cheering and excited yelling. Someone at the edge of the gathered crowd shifts, and Harry sees a man and a woman kissing. “Yes, of course,” she tells the man, her voice sounding choked with tears, and it’s then that Harry notices the bright sparkling diamond on her finger. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

A man dressed in a uniform -- he must work here, Harry realizes -- comes over and offers to take the happy couple’s photo. The woman is beaming as he snaps a few shots, and then a second man comes over to them. He’s holding a long-stemmed glass of champagne in each hand, and he offers it to the couple, who accept it with happy smiles. They’re giggling and bubbly and they look like they’re on top of the world.

“Wish _I_ could get some free champagne, somehow...” Louis murmurs, and Harry nods. Then he smiles as the idea comes to him.

“I mean, you could...” he trails off, and then his smile grows wider. He bites his lip, wondering if he’s actually brave enough to suggest it. But yes, what does he have to lose? His dignity, maybe, but that is absolutely worth losing if this ends up the way Harry hopes.

“What, Harry?” Louis demands. “Spit it out.”

“I dare you.”

Louis furrows his brow, and Harry tilts his head toward the newly engaged couple, who are drinking their free champagne, arms linked and stars in their eyes. Louis’ eyes widen as he realizes Harry’s intent. “Really?”

“I dare you,” Harry repeats, wondering if Louis will actually go through with it.

Louis closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and Harry takes a moment to notice how long his eyelashes are, catching sight of the way the afternoon light casts shadows onto his face. And then suddenly Harry can’t notice any of this, because Louis is lowering himself to the ground, Louis is getting down on one knee, Louis is taking Harry’s hands in his own.

Harry suddenly can’t breathe.

“Harry Styles,” Louis says loudly, a bright smile on his face. “You have been the greatest part of my life since I met you. That day in the hotel changed my life, and I am so glad that I can call you my best friend. But it would be an honor to call you my husband as well. Will you marry me?” He sounds so sincere, so realistic, and Harry can’t believe that this is actually happening.

He pulls his hands away from Louis’ to cover his face to hide his laugh. He notices that there’s a few people watching them now, and he needs to make this look authentic.

“Uh, Harry,” Louis jokes, his tone teasing, “you’re kind of leaving me hanging here. Especially with all these people watching. What do you say?”

“Yes, yes, absolutely, of course,” Harry says with a laugh, pulling Louis back up so they’re both standing. They’re laughing like little kids as they draw close to one another.

And then, so quickly that Harry doesn’t even have time to think about it, Louis leans in to kiss him. If the first brush of lips brings the electric feeling of kissing someone you’ve wanted to kiss for ages, the second brings a kind of natural comfort, like they’ve done this a thousand times before. Louis deepens it, slipping his tongue into Harry’s mouth and brushing it against Harry’s tongue. People around them are clapping and cheering for them, and when Harry pulls away to catch his breath, Louis pulls him in by the waist and hugs him tight. Harry breathes in and kisses the top of Louis’ forehead, and for a moment he almost forgets this isn’t real.

“Wow, two engagements in a row,” the uniformed man says, parting the crowd to give each of them a glass of champagne. “If people keep getting engaged we’ll soon be out of champagne.” A group of observers give them well wishes and Louis and Harry just blush, accepting them gratefully.

“Cheers.” Harry feels light and airy and he hasn’t even had a sip of champagne.

“Cheers, then, fiancè,” Louis says with a flourish, sticking out his pinky as they clink glasses and down their champagne in one swallow.

A few minutes later they’re in the lift that will take them back to the ground. They’re piled in tight with other people, a few of them who are still wishing them good luck. Louis is still clinging tight to him, pressing small kisses to the side of his neck. He’s really playing it up here. He’s giggly and blushy -- clearly a lightweight drunk -- and his lips are so, so pink. And _holy shit_ , Harry knows how soft they are now. He knows just how Louis tastes, because they finally, _finally_ kissed.

He feels a bit like he might pass out at the thought.

When they finally land back on solid ground, Harry takes Louis by the hand and drags him out of the immediate area. Louis holds on tight, but suddenly he stops short and turns so that he’s facing Harry. He’s blushing just like before, but now he looks mortified.

“Sorry if I, uh, took it too far up there,” he says, staring down at his black Vans.

“Hey, no, you didn’t,” Harry says, bringing his fingers to lift Louis’ chin so that he’ll make eye contact. “It was my idea, wasn’t it? I...I liked it.”

“Yeah?” Louis grins, almost imperceptibly, his cheeks returning to their natural, if still slightly embarrassed and slightly tipsy, glow. Harry nods, pulling him by the hand once more.

*

“I still think chocolate is such a boring flavor,” Harry argues. “Like, this was a luxury ice cream shop, known for some of the most unique flavors you could imagine, and you choose chocolate?”

“Well, I’m sorry we can’t all be like you and research this famous Berthillon ice cream place ahead of time and decide to order that praline amaretto or whatever the fuck you ordered,” Louis argues.

“I maintain that this is delicious.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Louis says, rolling his eyes as if to suggest he’s given up the fight -- for now.

They’re sitting on a bench on the Île Saint-Louis, one of two tiny islands on the Seine connected to the rest of the island by bridges. It’s gorgeous, tiny streets and quaint stores and lovely looking restaurants. It’s easy between them; Harry likes that they’re getting more comfortable, feels like it’s fine for him to relax into Louis’ side. Louis’ arm is resting on the back of the bench, his fingertips lightly grazing Harry’s shoulder.

Harry turns to look at him again, and Louis’ eyes are shining. “Let me take a picture,” Harry says impulsively, handing his cone to Louis to hold so he can fish the camera out of his bag.

“Why don’t we get someone to take it for us?”

“No, no, I can take a selfie on this,” he explains, popping the lens cover off his beloved Canon.

“You could just use your phone, you know,” Louis mutters, but he shuts up when Harry angles the camera to get them both in the frame. Harry clicks the shutter, smiling wide as he does so.

“Another,” Louis orders, and Harry isn’t expecting it when Louis darts forward to kiss him on the cheek. His wide-eyed surprise shows in the photo, but Louis makes a pleased sound when he sees it. “It’s beautiful.”

Harry turns to look at him, pink lips and bright blue eyes and a beaming smile. Louis’ hand has come to rest on the back of his neck somehow, and Harry leans in slowly, infinitesimal movements forward. Louis’ gaze on his face is heated.

“No free champagne in sight, Haz,” he says in a low tone. “What’s the incentive this time?”

Harry barely has the presence of mind to grab his melting ice cream cone from Louis’ hand before whispering, “You.”

And then he kisses him.

It’s sure, it’s steady, it’s real this time. It’s not for anyone else, not for free champagne or to get something out of it or because he feels sad. It’s a kiss because they want to, and it’s perfect.

*

“You want to make a plan for dinner?” Louis asks, and Harry looks up from his book to see him splayed on the hotel bed, focused on the television as he scrolls through channels with the remote. He’s focused on National Geographic right now, watching a program about the migration of birds in North America for the winter. Harry has no understanding of how he can be so calm right now, not after they spent so long kissing on the bench that their ice creams had melted, creating messy puddles on their knees and making both of them laugh so hard that they had to pull away. He’s been thinking about the kiss -- all the kisses, really, the first one and the second one and all the ones that followed -- since they got on the metro, hands brushing softly on the way back to the hotel.

“Harry?” Louis asks as he looks over to see why Harry’s not answering him. He looks concerned, and Harry’s immediately distracted by the sharp pull of _want_ he feels when their eyes lock. “I asked if you wanted to figure out what you want to go for dinner? There’s that place Niall was talking about, the one with the snails, we might be able to sneak them into the article--” He cuts himself off, a concerned frown on his face. “What’s wrong?”

He looks so _serious_ , so concerned that something might be wrong with Harry. When really, the only thing that’s wrong is that he’s not kissing Louis right now. He just _wants_ , and he’s tired of dancing around it, tired of them acting so uncertain, even after they’ve already kissed twice. He’s tired of this tight feeling in his chest, and now that he’s kissed Louis again, he knows that he wants to do it for as long as he’ll let him.

“Can I kiss you?” Harry asks softly, and Louis’ eyes widen in surprise, but he nods quickly, and sits up so that he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, feet resting on the ground.

“Yes, please,” Louis breathes, reaching for Harry. “Kiss me.”

Harry crosses the space between their beds in a wild heartbeat, and he grips Louis’ cheeks in between his hands as he pulls him in for a hard, bruising kiss. Louis sinks into it, going pliant beneath him, head tilting up so that Harry can reach him better. They kiss like that for long moments, and Harry swears he feels actual sparks between them.

“Can we--” Harry kisses him again, nipping at his lip. It’s more intense than it was earlier in the day, now that it’s just the two of them and a bed and all of Harry’s reservations are gone. “This isn’t the most comfortable position,” he explains sheepishly. “Can we move to the--”

“Yes, yes, of course.” There’s a smile on Louis’ face as he swings his legs up and scoots onto the bed so that he’s leaning with his head on the pillows. His body is splayed out, open and waiting, ready for the taking. Harry scrambles to kick off his shoes before crawling onto the bed, hovering on his elbows above Louis.

“Hi,” he says, dropping a peck to Louis’ lips and pulling back to stare at him. Louis’ pupils are wide and his hair is all over the place, wild from Harry running his fingers through it.

“Hi,” Louis returns, and he’s smiling, and the energy between them is crackling, like they’re on the precipice of something big here. “You gonna kiss me again, or are you just gonna keep creepily staring at me?” he asks with a teasing smile when Harry hasn’t moved. “Or am I gonna have to do this all myself?”

“Shut up, you like it.”

“I really do,” Louis says, and he surges up to kiss Harry again. Harry presses him back down to the bed, and is suddenly aware that they’re touching almost everywhere, hip to thigh to calf. He bucks his hips against Louis’, rolling them up in a sharp motion that makes Louis moan.

Louis coaxes Harry’s tongue out of his mouth, leaning his head backwards again so that Harry can press him further into the mattress with the weight of his body. Harry can feel Louis growing hard against his hip, and the thought snaps something in the tight coil of arousal in Harry’s gut. He’s squirming a bit beneath him, and the way that he’s kissing Harry, needy and desperate and ridiculously turned on, well, it makes Harry want to give him _everything_.

“You good?” Louis asks then, pulling away to check. Surely he’s able to feel how Harry’s already half-hard against him; surely he must know that he is, indeed, very, _very_ good.

“Yeah, I’m...uh, I’m good. Never been better, Lou. I want you,” he says honestly, hands coming to the bottom of Louis’ shirt, resting on his hips. He’s surprised by how raspy his voice sounds. “Can I-- can I suck you off?”

The sound Louis makes in response is obscene, and suddenly he’s scrambling up and off Harry, and Harry’s sure that he’s done something wrong, that he’s fucked this whole thing up, that there’s no recovery for the situation. But just as quickly, Louis pulls off his shirt and drops his trousers to the ground, leaving him just in his pants. He jumps back onto the bed, grinning impishly as he pulls Harry back down on top of him.

“No fair,” Harry complains, relief palpable in his chest, “that was supposed to be my job.” He doesn’t mind that much really, too happy to see Louis nearly naked to care, but he feels like Louis wants him to put up a bit of a fight, and Harry has zero reservations about playing his part.  
  
“Next time,” Louis insists. “I promise. But I’m too turned on right now and I can’t have you dragging this out too long, had to get you going somehow.”

Harry wants to argue, but he’s stuck on _next time_ , that there will be a next time. And then the pressure’s off a little bit, because that means that Louis isn’t just doing this with him because he can, or because he’s horny in that one moment. He just... _wants_ to do these things with Harry. Fuck, if Harry was half-hard a minute ago, now he’s going to bust through his already too-tight jeans.  

“Okay, so...how do you want me?” Harry asks, and his eyebrows must be pinched, because Louis reaches up and smooths out the crease between them with his thumb.

“You do know how this works, right, Hazza?” Harry brings his thumb down to trace the path of Louis’ lips, and even that small touch makes Harry feel like he’s drawing a trail of fire along the way. “Your mouth, my cock--” he drags his hips against the line of Harry’s hard cock, and even with three layers of fabric between them it’s still the best thing Harry has ever felt.

“Okay, shut up, I’ll have you know that I am _quite_ aware of how it works,” Harry teases, and then he’s pressing kisses to Louis’ bare chest, running his teeth over his 78 tattoo, the most visible thing on his chest. Harry has seen it before, of course, has been interested, but had never before allowed himself the luxury of letting his eyes linger on it, letting himself imagine what it would feel like to scratch at Louis’ nipples just below.

He drags a palm across Louis’ abs, and brings the other hand up to do just that, lightly scratching with one fingernail, and the muscles beneath his hand clench as Louis lets out a little hiss. Harry smiles, making a mental note that Louis has sensitive nipples. That knowledge might come in handy sometime soon.

“So, what’s the story behind the tattoo?” Harry murmurs as he works his way down Louis’ chest, pressing kisses the whole way.

“It’s, uh, my grandparents’ house number,” Louis explains, squirming below him as he goes back to drag his teeth over Louis’ collarbone. He can tell that Louis wants him to be quick about this, but Harry is nothing if not a dedicated lover. He’s going to drag this out, going to wait until Louis is begging for it and crying underneath him, and then he’ll finally give him the satisfaction that he clearly desires, his body practically begging for it.

“You ever think about getting any others? I mean, besides that stag on your arm.”

“Thought about it,” Louis says. “Haven’t found anything else I liked enough...maybe I could be convinced if you could, I don’t know, maybe get on with this whole, getting my dick in your mouth thing.”

Harry laughs, reveling in what his teasing is doing to Louis. He works his way back up to Louis’ lips, kissing him intently. “Wanted this for ages,” he confesses in a moment of honesty. “Wanted you.”

“Me too,” Louis admits. “Since the first time I saw you standing here that first day, really. Kinda can’t believe this is happening.”

He gives the statement a moment to hang in the air, and the meaning behind it settles in Harry’s blood like a sweet summer wine.

“Let me take your shirt off,” Louis insists, hands flying to the buttons and undoing the top one before even taking a moment to let Harry answer. Harry wants to make a comment about how he didn’t get the pleasure of taking of Louis’ shirt, so why should Louis get to do the same for him, but the thought of _next time_ reverberates again in his brain and he lifts himself up to help Louis get it off faster.

“Please,” he says, the word so quiet that it’s barely a breath, and soon Louis has all the buttons of his shirt undone and he’s pushing it off Harry’s shoulders, leaning forward to kiss his chest. Harry shrugs the shirt off and throws it to the side, and then he rolls off of Louis so that they can work to get rid of his jeans.

Louis works at the button, getting it undone so Harry can shimmy out of them, throwing them to the ground once they’re off. He rolls back up on top of Louis and nudges his jaw to the side with his nose. He sucks at his neck, leaving a lovebite that Louis will have to cover tomorrow.

When Louis points this out, Harry just grins. “So, can I suck you off now?”

Louis groans, flinging his forearm over his face and swallowing hard. “Yes, Jesus, yes. _Please_ ,” he groans, and Harry’s pleased to see that he’s so much more desperate than he had been when Harry had brought this up a little while ago, clearly so much more keyed up.

Harry makes work of kissing his way down Louis’ body then, enjoying the way Louis tenses and squirms and bites his lip to stop himself from crying out. He gets his palm on Louis’ cock through the fabric of his pants, and he can feel all of him, thick and hot and hard in his grip. Louis makes a pained sound, something akin to a groan of desperation, and Harry decides to finally take pity on him.

When he slips Louis’ pants off, his cock bobs out, and Louis lets out a relieved hiss as the air hits it. Harry hisses too, but it’s a sound of sharp, sudden arousal. He feels half-crazy, desperately needing to get his mouth on Louis as soon as he can.

“You’re so beautiful,” Louis gets out, tangling his fingers in Harry’s hair. “The way you look at me..it’s like nothing else matters,” Louis says honestly, and Harry feels something in his heart twist, something he can’t quite make sense of, but everything about it feels good.

“Good,” Harry answers, looking at Louis and thinking that he’s the manifestation of everything he’s ever wanted. “I think you’re kind of special.”

“Only kind of?” Louis teases, but he can’t say any more because suddenly Harry’s gripping his cock in his palm, slowly rubbing up and down his length, and Louis loses all control of his words. He tugs at Harry’s hair a bit too sharply, but Harry just lets out a little groan and leans into the touch all the same. He feels wild, like nothing can hold him down right now, nothing can hurt him. All he knows is the sharp coil of arousal, the impossibly handsome man in front of him, and a desperate need to get his mouth on his cock immediately.

The first touch is just a kiss. The second is an experimental lick from the tip to base. The third is when Harry finally eases the tension and wraps his mouth around the head, tonguing the slit and causing Louis to suck in a deep breath.

Harry licks and sucks, switching between the two so that Louis can’t get too complacent. He listens to Louis’ cues; if something makes him moan, he makes sure to do it again. He licks along the vein on the underside of his cock, and that makes Louis’ back nearly arch off the bed. Harry does that again and again, wrapping his hand around the base and twisting every so often, until Louis is squirming beneath him, begging for his release.

“Please, Harry,” Louis begs, “if you let me come now I’ll return the favor _immediately_. You’ll get to come sooner, please, _please let me come_.”

Harry pulls off of Louis’ cock with a cheeky grin, shaking his head and trailing his hand along Louis’ hip. The whole thing is probably a bit intimate for their first time, but he doesn’t care. It feels right. He’s not going to let Louis come yet; he’s getting way too much satisfaction out of the way he’s clearly driving Louis fucking mad. It’s been a while since he’s done this; he’s confident that he’s still good at it.

Harry does desperately want to come, knows he’ll be nearing the edge soon if Louis keeps moaning like that. God, just the sounds coming from this boy’s mouth would be enough to get him off. He feels truly gone for him, but that’s not something he needs to worry about just this moment. He grinds his cock along the sheets once to relieve some of the friction, and then he shakes his head and dives back down onto Louis’ cock.

When Louis comes a few minutes later, it’s with groan and a shout, a pillow thrown over his face to muffle the sound. He spills into Harry’s mouth and Harry’s content to take him down, making mental notes at just how _sexy_ Louis sounds, panting heavily and repeating, “Harry, Harry, _Harry_.”

He tosses the pillow away and Harry’s pleased to see his face flushed red, a happy, sated smile on his face. “Come up here,” Louis orders, pulling Harry to cuddle at his chest. “That was incredible, thank you,” he whispers, pushing Harry’s sweaty curls away from his face and tucking them behind his ears as he catches his breath. Louis leans in to kiss into his mouth, and Harry realizes that he must be tasting himself on Harry’s tongue.

“You’re welcome,” Harry answers belatedly when they break apart, and he’s suddenly painfully aware of how aroused he is, how hard his cock is. He’s out of practice here -- what’s the polite way to tell someone that you’re ready for them to return the favor and get you off?

Luckily, he doesn’t have to dwell on it for too long, because a few moments later Louis pushes himself off Harry and says, with a cheeky grin, “Okay, my turn.”

*

When they stumble out of the shower 45 minutes later, the sky is dark and the street outside is brightly lit. Louis’ stomach rumbles loudly, and he grins sheepishly.

“Hungry?”

“Absolutely famished. You wore me out, Hazza. Making me get you off in the shower too, _honestly_. I’ll have to be more careful with you.”

“Hey!” Harry protests. “You started it. Plus, aren’t shower handjobs the foundation of any good relationship?”

Louis giggles, honest to God _giggles_ , and covers his mouth to hide it. Harry drops his towel, stark naked in the middle of the room and suddenly Louis isn’t giggling anymore. He swats Harry with his own towel. “Oi, Hazza, put some pants on. Some of us don’t want to look at your naked arse.”

Harry just rolls his eyes, even as he indulges Louis and pulls a pair out of the drawer. “A few of the things you did in this very room an hour ago say otherwise.”

“Well, put some clothes on before you convince me to do it again,” Louis retorts. “I’m hungry.”

“Okay, fine. Put yours on too--” he watches as Louis pouts adorably before he continues, intending to sweeten the deal, “--and then I’ll order room service.”

Harry watches endearingly as Louis pulls his pants on, nearly tripping over his feet in his haste to get them on. He pulls a white t-shirt on over his head, looking at Harry as if to say, ‘how’s that?’ He flops on his own bed, hands crossed behind his head, bare feet crossed at the ankles. “Alright, please feed me now, Hazza.”

“You sure are demanding for someone who’s just had their mouth on my cock, aren’t you?” Harry teases, but he reaches for the room service menu that’s resting on the desk anyway.

“ _Oh, Louis, please, Louis you’re the best, come on, Louis_ ,” Louis imitates as he takes the menu from him, and Harry blushes bright red. He seriously sounds like he came straight out of a porno (not that Harry has ever seen one of those, of course not…). “So, yeah, if you really want to talk about demanding, I don’t think you have much of a leg to stand on.”

“I do not sound like that!” Harry argues, but he knows he does. He doesn’t much care.

“Afraid you do, darling. Liked it all the same though. So if it’s not much difference to you, I’m going to order us some food now.”

Harry brushes his hair while Louis picks out food for them and rings it in. He curls up next to him on Louis’ bed while they wait for the food to arrive, flipping through the channels.

“Ooh, stop, I like this movie,” Harry orders, tapping Louis’ stomach insistently.

Louis stops his hand from where it’s been running through Harry’s hair, looking down at him in surprise. “You like _Bridesmaids_?”

Harry gives a little shrug. “I mean, yeah. My sister makes me watch it every time we both go home. It’s funny. If you don’t like it though, we can watch something else…” he trails off, suddenly uncertain.

“No, no, I like it. Just surprised _you_ like it. You’re just full of surprises, Harry Styles.”

Harry tilts his head back to kiss him then, soft and sweet. “Think this whole trip has been full of surprises.”

Louis opens his mouth to say something, but there’s a knock on the door and an ensuing announcement that it’s room service. Harry flashes him an apologetic smile and pulls away from him, jumping off the bed to get the door.

“You might want a shirt, Harry. Please don’t scare away the nice room service people.”

Harry looks down and notices that he is indeed shirtless. “Thanks,” he mutters as he pulls on a plain white t-shirt and grabs his wallet from the desk.

He takes the room service tray from the woman at the door, giving her a tip of a few euros with a murmured thanks. “Lou,” he says as he kicks the door shut, and goes back into the room, “this is a ridiculous amount of food.”

“You wore me out,” Louis says with a shrug. “I’m hungry.”

Harry places the tray of food on the foot of Louis’ bed. “Louis, spaghetti and meatballs, two grilled ham and cheese sandwiches, mashed potatoes, and _four_ chocolate chip cookies? Really?”

“I guess I forgot the vegetables,” Louis jokes.

“Yeah, I guess you did. Or maybe you just ordered an _insane_ amount of fucking food.” Harry tries to sound stern, but he curls up to Louis anyway, the two of them leaning back against the headboard.

“We’re gonna eat in bed?”

“Where else would we eat?”

“What about all the crumbs on the bed? I’m a messy eater, Harry, especially when the food is good.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’ll be sleeping in my bed tonight,” Harry says, leaning in close to Louis so that their noses brush. “I mean, if you want to.”

“Yes. I like you a lot, Harry,” Louis whispers, and his voice is earnest. “Like, maybe more than anyone I’ve ever met.” Louis is staring at him and grinning, and Harry feels his heart swell a little bit.

“Me too. Kind of scares me a bit.” It’s something he hasn’t felt in ages, not since the early days with Andrew, and it does scare him, but he thinks that even in spite of the fear he can go with it. As long as he keeps work as the most important thing, he can handle this too.

“It’ll be okay,” Louis whispers, giving Harry a soft kiss. “We’ll take it slow.”

They feed each other on the bed then, and if Harry wants to act out the spaghetti scene from Lady and the Tramp, well, he’s finally got someone to do that with and he’s sure as hell going to do it.

When they finish the food, the tray gets thrown off the bed and they lose themselves in each other again.


	2. II.

Louis wakes to gentle kisses peppered all over his face. “Louis,” says the whisper in his ear. “Louis, wake up.”

He opens his eyes, immediately confused about where he is. The view is different, and it’s not until he turns around to see Harry behind him that he remembers they’re in Harry’s bed.

“G’morning,” he whispers through a sleepy haze, their faces just inches apart.

“Morning, Lou.” Harry’s smiling, and they stay like that, staring at each other for a minute until Harry leans in for a kiss and Louis rolls away.

“Morning breath,” he explains, waving a hand over his face. “Let me go brush my teeth first.”

“Louuuu,” Harry whines, trying to snuggle in close, but thankfully he lets Louis get up after a minute. They have not known each other long enough yet to deal with Louis’ gross morning breath.

When he gets back the duvet is flung to the side of the bed and Harry is stretched out on his back, his shirt exposing a sliver of skin and part of his laurel tattoos. He’s grinning cheekily as he scratches his stomach. Louis is convinced he’s a specific form of torture sent to ruin all semblance of productivity, because all Louis wants to do is pull off Harry’s pants and get his tongue back on those tattoos. Louis had finally gotten to do that last night, and it had been even better than he’d imagined. He’d never felt so comfortable with someone he’d never been with before. And it’s been awhile since he’s slept with someone long enough for them to get to know what he likes. Harry just seemed to _know_ , and the things he didn’t know he learned quickly. It wasn’t perfect, but it sure felt that way. It was perfect in all the ways that mattered to him.

Finally getting to kiss Harry yesterday had felt like winning a football trophy for the club league, and being with him last night had felt like coming home. Louis might be a little cheesier than he’d ever anticipated. That’s kind of alright with him.

He’s not sure what this thing with Harry really is, but he knows that he wants to pull him close and never let him go. If he has his way, he’ll never have to.

*

“Let me take you to breakfast,” Harry had said once they’d both gotten dressed, and Louis may be a lot of things, but he’s certainly never been one to turn down a free meal, especially not with a gorgeous boy. He enjoys being wined and dined, and it’s even better when breakfast is the meal at stake.

rea

That’s how he’s found himself in a very fancy restaurant, one that’s serving them eggs exactly as they want them and brioche and croissants dripping with chocolate. The table is cluttered with fresh squeezed orange juice, tea, and the fanciest hot chocolate he’s ever tasted, all made just for him.

“Harry, this is far too much,” Louis protests, even as his stomach is rumbling at the sight of all of this food laid in front of him.

“Shut up and let me do something nice for you, please,” Harry says, and the sweet smile he tacks onto the end of the sentence stops Louis from protesting further.

Louis isn’t sure what to say, so he settles for a simple thank you, and he hopes Harry knows how sincere he is. He digs into his food, and it’s not until he starts eating that he realizes how hungry he is. His mum always says that his eyes were bigger than his stomach, but for once they seem to perfectly match up.

“So, about last night...” Harry says after a few minutes of comfortable silence. Has Louis ever slept with someone and then eaten breakfast with them in a non-awkward silence? He can’t think of a single time that’s happened. Though, this isn’t a normal one-night stand, and Harry is clearly a very special case.

“Is this going to be a common thing, you taking me out to breakfast every time we sleep together?” He’s expecting Harry to make some kind of teasing joke about it, but what happens instead is that Harry’s face turns into a mask of panic. Louis feels his stomach drop.

“I...I don’t exactly know what I’m doing, Louis. I like you so much, and the time we’ve spent together, even before yesterday, has quite possibly been the greatest time I’ve ever had, but...I mean, you know about what happened before. I don’t know if I can do that again. I mean, I know I can’t. I just...” He looks so worried, like he could bolt at any second if Louis makes a sudden move. He looks positively terrified. It’s such a sudden change in demeanor that Louis isn’t sure how to react.

“Are you...are you scared of me, Harry?” Louis asks softly, trying to keep his voice light. This is not the conversation he expected to be having this morning. He thought that the two of them would go out to breakfast, maybe flirt a little bit (or a lot), go for a walk while Harry took photographs in the park. He didn’t expect to be hearing that what they did last night was a mistake. Which, granted, Harry hasn’t said, but Louis feels like it’s coming. It is probably going to break his heart if it does.

Harry swallows hard, and Louis watches the column of his throat move with the motion, feeling a tight bundle of anxiety settle in his gut as he waits for Harry to answer. “I’m scared of the way you make you feel. I’m scared of how I feel about you. But, no, I could never be scared of _you_ , Louis,” he says, and his voice has never sounded more earnest or pained.

“How -- how do I make you feel, Harry?” Louis asks, and he knows that he’s treading on dangerous ground here. Louis shouldn’t be asking Harry to reveal his feelings before he’s ready. This isn’t the time or the place. But apparently Harry has decided to make it the time, and Louis is going to asks these questions before he gets hurt.

“You make me wonder what color you’d want to paint our living room and what kind of meals you’d want me to cook when you were sick and what you’d look like holding a baby, our baby. You make me feel like I could fall in love again. Like, deeper than it was with Andrew. Way deeper. And that scares the _shit_ out of me, because I promised myself I’d never want that again. Not after last time.” His voice is so honest and open and it all comes out in such a rush that Louis isn’t even sure Harry meant to say all that when he began speaking.

His eyes fall to the white tablecloth then, where he fiddles with a small thread that’s come loose. He’s pushing the thread around, and Louis’ heart feels caught in his chest at the expression on his face. He’s never been in this situation, has absolutely no idea what to say. But he knows what Harry means; he thinks he’s halfway to being in love with Harry already, and it’s been little more than a week.

It doesn’t make any sense, but it still feels like the truest thing he’s ever known.

“Harry,” Louis says softly, and something in his tone must prompt him to raise his eyes to look at Louis. “I can’t promise you that it’ll be all champagne and roses. I have no idea how to do this kind of thing either. But I can promise you that I would never hurt you like that. I’d never try to change you. I’d never make you do _anything_ you didn’t want. And I think that’s the difference. I told you we could take it slow, and I meant it. I know I haven’t had much experience with these kinds of feelings before, but ever since the first moment we met I have thought about nothing except for how I could impress you, and ways to make you happy, and I know that that means something, means something big. And I know that it should scare me, but...it’s you. And you make it seem like it’s not scary, even though we’ve known each other for such a short time. I know hearing it out loud must sound so crazy, but in all honesty this is the most sane and sure I have ever felt about something.”

Harry still looks forlorn, and Louis is very rapidly feeling his confidence falling here, unraveling like the threads of the tablecloth Harry is still pulling on. He has _never_ felt this vulnerable before, but something deep down is forcing him to continue, forcing him to tell Harry all of these things, no matter how scary it feels. “Listen, if you want to walk away when we finish this thing, that’s fine, I’ll respect that and I’ll deal with my own feelings. But -- and I’m sorry if this isn’t my place to say -- I just think that we get along too well to let this just disappear because we’re scared.”

“Can we just -- can we just see what happens? Like, it’s been a week and I already feel so much for you. I wanted to kiss you from that very first day. I don’t know how to do something like this, but I know that I want to try and figure it out.” He’s still forlorn, but Louis wants to kiss him until Harry’s breathless, kiss him until he’s wiped the frown off his face.

They’re quiet when the waitress comes by to refill their orange juice glasses, and Harry allows her to give him more coffee. Louis waits until she’s walked away to speak again.

“We don’t have to put a name to it, if that’s what you’re scared of. I just think it would be a shame to waste something when it could be so good.”

“Last night was pretty great, wasn’t it?” Harry asks, grinning for the first time in long minutes. Louis isn’t sure he’d ever wanted to see someone smile so badly.

“Like, the best.” Louis acknowledges. “And that alone would be worth keeping this thing going, I think.” He’s teasing, but the look that flashes over Harry’s face makes him realize he’s not so sure Harry knows that. “I’m kidding, love. I’ve tried the friends with benefits thing. Not much fun when there’s feelings involved.”

“Stop teasing me, I’m serious.” 

Louis giggles, covering his mouth to stop the sound. “I know you are. I am too. We can both be committed to something without it being this desperate, serious thing. Okay? Why don’t we just see what happens? Take things one step at a time.” 

Harry nods, and he doesn’t look like he’s figured everything out, but Louis doesn’t need him to. They can do that together.

*

Harry’s just finished taking photos of the Medeci Fountain in the Jardin du Luxembourg when Louis hears the music. There’s a big circular basin in the middle of the gardens, and he can see kids pushing toy sailboats around in the water with big sticks. French kids are so polite; there’s none of the shouting and screaming and temper tantrums you’d hear in a park in London or America.

“Walk with me,” Louis says, intent on discovering the source of the music. “I want to find out where the music’s coming from.”

Harry pulls his camera away from his face and flashes Louis an indulgent smile. “Okay. Lead the way.” He tucks his arm into Louis’, and though he slows down the pattern of their walking, Louis doesn’t mind it. They’ll have time for everything they want to do. He doesn’t have to be _go-go-go_ all the time. He’s here for work, but he can experience moments just like any other tourist would. He’s hesitant to admit that Harry is teaching him to let go a little bit, that just because it’s a work trip doesn’t mean a nice moment has to be anything more than just a nice moment. But he’s already falling for Harry anyway, so there’s no harm in admitting it to himself.

They amble along, holding each other close, and a few minutes later they discover the musician with the guitar at the edge of the garden, a small crowd gathered around him. There’s a hat with a few euros thrown in, and Louis pulls out his wallet. His rule is that if a street musician’s work stops to make him listen and appreciate it, he’ll always give them a tip.

“Wait,” Harry stops him with a hand on his forearm. “Dance with me.”

They do then, Harry leading him to the beat of a song that Louis doesn’t know. They’re pressed in close together, and Louis falls in line easily. He wraps his arms around Harry’s neck, fingertips curling in the hair he finds there. Louis doesn’t dance in public if he doesn’t have to, but there’s no hesitation being here with Harry; he trusts him not to make fools of them both. When Harry whispers that he thinks the two of them should become ballroom dancers, Louis throws his head back and laughs.

When the music stops, Harry stops too, bringing his hand from Louis’ waist up to cup his cheek. Louis barely has time to blink before Harry’s kissing him. In the back of Louis’ mind he’s aware that there's people all around them, probably watching them, but he doesn’t care. He’s not a travel writer on an assignment for work right now; he’s just a boy who wants to kiss his maybe-someday boyfriend in the middle of a park in the most beautiful city in the world, and as he opens his mouth to let Harry in, that’s exactly what he’s going to do.

*

“Let’s go see the Water Lilies,” Harry begs, tugging him by the hand out of the gates of the Luxembourg Gardens. They’re not that far from their hotel, and Louis is suddenly dying for a nap, can’t stand the thought of going to another museum, of seeing more art that he doesn’t care for, even if Harry loves it.

He pulls Harry to a stop on the narrow sidewalk, tugging his hand so that Harry turns to face him. He takes both of his hands in his own. “Why don’t you go, love, and I’ll go back to the hotel? Promised my mum I’d call her at some stage today, and there’s no time like the present, yeah?”

“Lou,” Harry whines, lips turned down in a pout that is very much doing its job. “I’ll be on my own then.”

“Some time by yourself will be good for you, I promise. You can stare at the paintings as long as you want and I won’t be begging you to hurry up. It’ll be more fun.” He doesn’t want Harry to feel like he has to entertain him at a museum he’s not interested in, and he really does need to call his mum.

Harry sighs. “Fine. I’ll see you back at the hotel after? Maybe we can get lunch.”

“Lunch,” Louis says with a definitive nod, and then he darts forward to give Harry a quick peck, almost like a habit at this point. “I’ll see you then.”

Harry goes in for another kiss, a bit longer this time (that boy is insatiable, honestly, but Louis isn’t ever going to complain about that) and squeezes his arms quickly.

“Don’t go kissing anyone else now when you’re gone,” Louis calls as he walks away, and Harry just bursts into a laugh, quite possibly the best sound Louis has ever heard.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Lou. Won’t be kissing anyone else but you.”

Harry probably means it to be lighthearted, but to Louis it sounds like a promise.

*

“So it’s going well?” His mum confirms from the other end of the line. “And that boy you’re working with, what was his name, Harvey? How’s things with him?”

“Harry, Mum,” Louis corrects. “His name’s Harry. He’s…” There’s a long pause as Louis thinks of the best way to describe Harry, and he realizes he can’t, not in one easy sentence. “He’s good.”

“Louis William, spill the beans.”

“What beans?” Louis sputters, his heart suddenly racing. “There’s no beans to spill.”

“I know that tone of voice, young man. I _am_ your mother. Who is he?”

“He’s just...he’s just a boy, okay?”

“A very handsome one, I expect, if the way your voice sounds is anything to go by.”

Louis falls back on his bed and closes his eyes. Honestly, having a mother who knows him so well can be such a struggle sometimes. “Yes, fine, he’s very handsome, Mum. Is that enough for you?”

“Is he...is he interested in you?” Her tone is light and teasing, and Louis is so not ready for this conversation.

“Ugh, Mum, honestly, can we please not talk about this? Tell me something else. How are the girls? How’re things at the school?”

“Fine,” she says good-naturedly, “we won’t talk about it anymore. But please be good, and remember not to let anyone break your heart.”

“Thanks, Mum. Really. I know you mean well. So how are the girls? Are the twins still in that fairy princess phase or have they moved onto the next cool thing?”

Twenty-five minutes later when he’s finished his phone call with lots of goodbyes to his sisters, who’d come home from school just as he was about to hang up, he hangs up and tosses his phone on the bed next to him. He hadn’t anticipated that his mum would ask him about Harry, and honestly it did weird things to his heart below his ribcage.

Harry just... Harry is a lot. He’s a constant surprise, whether it’s because he loves Bridesmaids or buys Louis his favorite childhood book or puts up with Louis whining about the art he loves. Which, Louis should probably keep that to a minimum if he wants to keep making Harry happy. But the point stands, that Harry has taken him by surprise from that very first day.

The kiss yesterday had really taken him by surprise, for one. He’d never have expected that Harry would con him into a fake proposal in order to make their first kiss happen, but hey, he wasn’t ever going to complain. There was an opportunity there, and Harry had taken it to do what Louis was too scared to do on his own. And now they were...well, Louis isn’t quite sure what they are at the moment. But he doesn’t think they have to quite figure it out. They have time.

He’s just falling asleep on top of the covers of his own bed when his phone rings. Eyes still closed, he blindly reaches out for it and swipes his finger to accept the call.

“Mum, I swear nothing’s happened with me and him since we last talked--”

“This isn’t your mum,” the voice on the other end says, and _shit_ , Louis recognizes that voice. It’s unfortunately very familiar. He pulls his phone away from his ear and, yep -- _Simon Cowell_ is written across the screen in bold letters.

“Simon,” Louis says, closing his eyes in annoyance as he sinks back against the headboard. “Sorry, about that, hi. How are you?”

“I’m doing fine, Mr. Tomlinson,” Simon intones. “You haven’t responded to my last two emails so I’m calling to check up on you. How are things going over there?”

“They’re going well. We’ve accomplished a lot, and we should have plenty of material to work with when we get back to London in a few days.” Because, that’s right, there are only five days left here and then they’re heading home.

“I’m glad to hear that. You and I may have our differences, but I know that I can count on you to put out a good final product.”

Louis rolls his eyes. Simon had been his former internship mentor, and the two of them had nearly come to blows more times than Louis could count. The two of them are both stubborn as mules, and it hasn’t made for a good working relationship. If not for the fact that Louis had won international awards for a few of his articles, Louis is certain that Simon would have fired him by now.

“Yes, well, I’m excited for you to see it. I think it’s going to be a great article, full of interesting and unique places for people to visit if they’ve never been to Paris before.”

“Please include a feature on the lock bridge there, you know, the Pont des Arts? They’re thinking of taking all the locks off and I want to make sure Harry gets some photos of it. See if you can interview someone there as well.”

“Yes sir, I can do that. I’ll tell him.”

“How are things going between the two of you?” If he closes his eyes, Louis can see Simon sitting back in his desk chair, leaning back as he crosses his feet up on the desk. He’s probably doodling something on a notepad; he’s always had a habit of doing that when people are talking to him.

“It’s going well. We’re a good pair,” Louis admits, and then he can’t say any more, because he thinks he might start spouting poetry about Harry’s kissing skills.

“He applied for the assistant photography editor job, did you know that?” Simon asks.

“I did, yes sir.”

“That’s why he’s on this assignment at all, I told him he needed to show me more of what he can do. So what do you think of him?”

“What--what do you mean?” Louis sputters. 

“As a photographer, Tomlinson. What do you think of his photography skills? You know, for the assistant editor job? Honestly, please pay more attention, don’t be so daft. I need to know what you think because you'll be working closely with him if he gets the job, and I need to get an idea of your working relationship and your assessment of his skills.”

Louis rolls his eyes. Simon is such a condescending prick. The trouble is he’s also really damn good at what he does. “I would highly recommend him for the position, if you’re asking for my professional opinion. I think he has excellent judgement and he’s very talented, especially for someone so young.”

“We’ll have to see about that,” Simon says, and Louis has to fight to not roll his eyes again. “That’s it, Mr. Tomlinson. Thanks. See you in the office next week when you get back -- and I expect to have article proofs two weeks from today.”

“Yes sir. Take care.”

Louis has never wished for a flip phone more than whenever he finishes a call with Simon; it would be so lovely to just be able to flick his phone shut with a satisfying clap whenever he hung up. Alas, technology has advanced a bit and all he can do is hit the red button, jabbing it as hard as he can to release his frustration.

He curls up in his bed again, attempting to take the nap he’s been craving all day. Harry will probably be back soon, and he doesn’t want to be grumpy for whatever they do later. But, inevitably, his thoughts turn to what it would be like to work with Harry, to see him every day in the office and maybe even go on trips together. They would be a travel article dream team, that much he knows for sure. But if they started dating, would their working relationship survive it? He’s not sure.

Louis isn’t used to letting people in, that’s the problem. He’s never really shared all the parts of himself with someone he’s not related to. But something about Harry’s easy acceptance makes him want to, makes him want to share the embarrassing stories about the weird things he did in primary school and the shameful ways he acted when he was at university, because he trusts Harry not to judge him for it. Harry would probably wipe his tears, hold him close, and tell him that he doesn’t need to be embarrassed, that who he was back then isn’t who he is now. Because Harry is the kind of guy who says cheesy shit like that, but he’d also say it in a way that would make Louis actually believe it.

He falls asleep to the thought of Harry’s green eyes looking at him with warmth, telling him that he’s going to be okay.

*

“So, uh, I have something to tell you,” Harry says sheepishly the next day when they’re on their way back to Liam’s bar to meet up with Niall and Liam.

 _Oh God, something’s happened_ , is Louis’ first thought. But things have been fine. Harry had come back with gorgeous photos of the Water Lilies and they’d gone out for a nice dinner where they’d played footsie under the table, and then they’d come back to the hotel and traded sleepy orgasms in the shower. They’d had breakfast this morning and walked around the city for a few hours, sharing stories from home and continuing their seemingly unending truth or dare game.

“What’s wrong?” Louis asks, stopping short on the sidewalk. A woman with a dog tuts at them for stopping and blocking her path. Or at least, that’s what Louis assumes she’s mad about; he can’t speak French so he has no clue what she’s actually said.

“So, Niall may have asked me if the two of us were a couple the other day when you were in the loo. And...I said no.”

“So? Just tell him we’re a...we’re something. He’ll go with whatever we tell him.” Louis shrugs, not really understanding the problem.

“No, Lou!” Harry pouts. “He’s going to _kill_ me because he was right, I _did_ have heart eyes for you and I denied it!”

Louis bursts into a laugh. “ _Heart_ eyes? What the hell does that mean?”

The look on Harry’s face is one of a petulant child who’s just seconds away from stomping his feet on the ground in frustration. “It just means, like, he knew that I liked you,” he says, “and I tried to deny it because I was embarrassed. And now we _are_ a thing, and he's going to kill me because he was right.”

Louis shouldn’t be hopelessly endeared by the ridiculous pout on Harry’s face, but he is anyway. “Come on,” he says as he wraps Harry into a hug and guides him down the street. “If Niall tries to kill you he’s going to have to get through me first. I’ll take care of him.”

When they enter the pub, they spot Niall waiting at the bar, antagonizing Liam just like the last time they were here.

“Hey!” Liam says, hands raised in the air in some kind of gesture of defeat as he makes his way around the bar to greet them. “You’d think you two could have come twenty minutes ago, to save me from Niall and his meddling.”

“Sorry, Li,” Louis says as Liam hugs him, “I’ll try to do better next time.” Niall glares, but he hugs each of them anyway.

Liam hugs Harry and quickly returns to the bar, pouring them both a drink. “Can I get you lads anything to eat? Got some good burgers, some nice fish and chips if you’re up for it?”

Louis looks at Harry, trying to figure out what he wants. “What if we get one of each and we can switch halfway through?” Harry asks Louis, who nods.

“Works for me. Li, we’ll take one of each, thanks.”

Niall narrows his eyes at this interaction. “What’s the deal with the two of you? Why are you so...you’re both very flushed.”

 _Oh,_ Louis thinks, _this must have been what Harry was talking about_.

“It’s quite warm out, Niall,” Harry says, deadpan. But Louis decides to avoid making this whole scenario something out of a terrible romantic comedy and instead grabs Harry’s hand, holding it up in the air like he’s just won a wrestling tournament.

“We’re together,” Louis proclaims loudly, and it feels nice to finally say it out loud, to have someone other than Harry know that the two of them have finally given in to their primal instincts (and fallen hopelessly, shamelessly hard for each other, but he doesn’t have to say that out loud).

“You fuckers!” Niall yells, and the six other patrons of the bar turn around with disinterested glances to find the source of the sound. When they see that it’s Niall, they turn back to their drinks; Louis feels like Niall screaming in this pub must be a common occurrence.

“Hey, hey, don’t mess up my hair!” Harry complains, half-hearted in his protests as Niall pulls him into a headlock.

“I absolutely cannot believe you,” Niall says as he releases Harry, who immediately shakes out his hair, trying to smooth it back into place. It looks like there’s no hope for recovery, but he looks cute with it all wild and messed up, so Louis isn’t going to tell him that. “You told me that there was nothing going on.”

“There wasn’t,” Louis steps in to save his sort-of boyfriend. “It’s new.”

“So, what, the two of you are dating, then? Like, properly?” Liam asks, subtly guiding them to a table, presumably so that they’ll stop disturbing the other patrons. Louis is pretty sure they’ve scared away at least one of them by now. He has to push Niall into a chair, and Louis plops down on the bench next to Harry, their thighs pressed up against one another.

“Yes...well, sort of,” Harry hedges. Liam just stares questioningly. “I mean, I’ve had...not the greatest experience with relationships.  So we’re kind of taking it slow. Like, sort-of boyfriends, I guess?” He looks to Louis to help him explain.

“We’re just taking it slow, going to see what happens,” Louis says definitively, dropping his hand protectively over Harry’s, which is resting on the table. “But we certainly won’t be kissing anyone else.”

Liam groans, an over exaggerated sound that reminds Louis of his secondary school drama days. “Well, there goes my chance.”

Harry wiggles his eyebrows. “I mean, if Louis says it’s okay...”

Louis wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Absolutely not. Definitely not happening.”

Niall just tuts. “I can’t believe the two of you. You’re terrible.”

“What d’you mean, Niall?” Harry asks, mock offended.

“The two of you are obsessed with each other,” Niall explains. “All over each other even when we’re here in public and you probably just had sex like two hours ago.”

“Do you really need to talk about their sex life?” Liam asks. “I genuinely don’t need to know the details, I hear enough from you, you wanker,” he adds to Niall.

“Excuse you, it was last night,” Harry offers unhelpfully, and Louis swats him on his upper arm.

“Enough. Keep that between us,” Louis stage whispers.

“Please,” Liam says. “Change of topic. When are the two of you heading back to London?”

Louis has to consult the calendar on his phone to find the answer. “Four more full days here and then we’re heading back home.”

“Feel like the two of you were just in my bookshop ordering me to tell you where to go,” Niall teases.

“Oh shut up. You loved having us there, even if Harry did try to take pictures of everything he wasn’t supposed to.”

“Oh yeah, speaking of,” Niall starts, putting down his drink from where he’d just been about to take a sip. He’s finished more than half his pint in the short time they’ve been sitting here, but it seems it has absolutely no affect on him whatsoever. “If you still need photos for your article, I can let you in to do that. Maybe tomorrow?”

“I thought photos weren’t allowed in the bookstore.”

“They’re not allowed for ordinary people. But I know you now, and I know you’re not just a sneaky tourist trying to make a quick buck.”

“Well, thanks, Niall. That’d be great,” Harry says, and he pats Niall’s hand. Niall grabs it and gives it a quick squeeze.

“‘Course.”

“You’re doing a travel article for who again?” Liam asks.

“It’s for Condé Nast Traveler magazine, the UK edition. English Speaker’s guide to Paris, basically. Places to go, what to see, all that,” Louis says.

Liam looks thoughtful. “My sister works at a place like that in London. Not like, as big as that, mostly just a local thing, but if I can ever help you with anything, let me know. I’m sure she’d be happy to help in any way she can.”

 

“Yeah, hopefully I’ll be getting a full-time job with the magazine soon. Remains to be seen really,” Harry admits, and Louis doesn’t miss the way his voice turns shaky at the end. It’s clear that he’s still really nervous about the whole thing. Harry takes a long sip of beer then, and Louis answers the question Liam hasn’t yet asked.

“Harry’s freelancing. He’s hoping they’ll hire him full-time, but my boss, Simon, basically said that he needed to see more professional work from Harry before he would do that. Which is how we ended up on this assignment together.”

Harry nods and gives them a thumbs up as he swallows.

“And look at the two of you now. A pair of lovesick fools, you are. Can’t stand it.”

“Niall, we are literally not doing anything remotely lovesick right now,” Harry says.

“You are too! I can see the way Louis’ hand is rubbing up and down your knee,” Niall argues, and, yeah, that’s true. So Louis just wants to be comforting when Harry’s a bit stressed out, who can blame him?

“Oh, bugger off, Niall. Leave us alone.”

Harry grins at that, even going so far as to lean in and give Louis a quick closed mouth kiss. Niall groans.

Louis takes pity on them and decides a change of subject is in order. “Anyway, can we talk about football or something? Liam, did you see the match last night?”

*

They’ve each had four beers by the time they decide to call it a night and head home. The food had come to the table after the first round, but it hadn’t done much to soak up the alcohol. Louis feels very light headed right now, and that’s why nothing stops him from slipping his hand into the back pocket of Harry’s jeans as they walk, nothing to stop him from pressing sloppy wet kisses to Harry’s cheek every block.

On one kiss, Harry turns his cheek at just the right time and captures Louis’ mouth with his own, pushing against Louis’ lips with his tongue immediately. The street is dark and there’s only a few people around, so Louis doesn’t feel too bad about the blatant PDA. He doesn’t feel an ounce of embarrassment when Harry pushes him against the closest wall, slipping his own hands into Louis’ back pockets and squeezing what he can of his arse.

“Have I told you that your arse is perhaps the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen?” Harry slurs, sloppily kissing the side of his neck.

Louis tilts his head back to give him more room to work with, and can only murmur a quiet ‘no’ before he’s distracted by Harry’s tongue nipping at his neck. It’s a lie, Harry has definitely told him more than once, but he’s always ready to hear it again.

“Well, it is,” Harry whispers into his ear, and the feeling of his hot breath over his ear makes Louis’ whole body shiver. “The first time I ever saw it was our first morning here, and you were getting dressed, and I pretended to still be asleep so that I could look at it. But really I was wondering how one person could have such a nice arse, and how long it would take before I could get my teeth on it.”

He gives it another squeeze, and Louis has to fight not to let out a groan. They are still in public, after all, and he doesn’t think Harry would have much shame about stripping him naked right here and having his way with him. Which, yeah, Louis would appreciate, but he really doesn’t want him and his beautiful prized arse to land themselves in French jail tonight.

He can’t speak a word of French. He might be in trouble if that were to happen. Plus, he’d be alone. Or would Harry be with him? Harry speaks a bit of French, but people seem to look at him funny when he tries to speak it. Maybe he can’t actually say things that well. But, whatever, Harry is beautiful. He’s so, so beautiful. And Louis is very, very drunk. He should stop thinking about this and focus instead on how beautiful Harry is, and how very hungry for him he is right now.

Harry’s grinding up against him at this stage, and his hands have migrated to slip under Louis’ thin t-shirt.

“Hey, hey,” Louis says, pulling Harry’s hands out from under the shirt and swinging them between them. “Take me back to the hotel, and then you can do whatever you want with my arse. I don’t want to end up in French jail.”

“French jail?” Harry asks loudly, and then he shushes himself with a giggle. “Sorrrrry. But why would you be in French jail? I just want to eat you out, Louuuu. Why would that land us in jail?”

Louis can feel his cock hardening underneath his jeans, and he’s drunk, but Harry seems to be drunker. He hopes Harry is at least sober enough to follow through on his promise, because now Harry has put the imagery in his head and he’s probably going to die if he doesn’t get Harry’s tongue on his arse, _tonight_. Because he’s picturing their dark hotel room, and his legs held up in the air by his own hands, and Harry between his legs, his hair tickling Louis’ thighs as he dives in and runs his tongue… Enough.

“Okay, time to go, Harry. Back to the hotel, let’s go,” Louis orders, pulling Harry along before he ends up coming, untouched, on a sidewalk in the middle of Paris.

The walk back to the hotel is a bit of a struggle, especially as he’s trying to shush Harry the whole way back, because he keeps trying to sing these ridiculous songs about peachy arses and boys with blue eyes. If he was more sober, Louis would ask him if these were songs that he’d written about Louis, but right now doesn’t quite seem like the time.

They make it up all the flights of stairs to their room without a struggle. However, Harry had insisted on stopping on every landing and kissing there for at least five minutes each time, getting progressively sloppier each time. Louis certainly wasn’t complaining.

There’s a struggle to unlock the door and then finally, _finally_ they’re back in the hotel room. Louis goes to pull off his t-shirt and Harry stops him with a firm hand on his wrist.

“No, let me. I didn’t get to last time.” He sounds surprisingly sober, like being so turned on has given him a tiny bit more control of his senses. “You promised I could do it.”

Louis is so ridiculously turned on that he can’t say anything and just allows himself to be led to the edge of the bed, nodding numbly. He’s right, after all. Louis did promise. Harry takes his time with him, kissing the skin of his stomach and pushing his shirt up to his armpits, biting at his nipples. That’s what finally makes Louis cry out and beg for him to hurry up.

He lifts his arms for Harry to pull his shirt over his head, and Harry gets his trousers undone and off him almost immediately.

He’s just wearing his pants then, and his erection is pressing uncomfortably hard against the fabric. “Harry,” he begs, running his bare foot up Harry’s clothed leg and over his cock, which is ridiculously hard. Harry looks like the motion of his foot is a little painful. Suddenly, Louis remembers that Harry was so good to him the other night, and he feels guilty for begging for it again. This is a two-way street, after all.

“Hey,” he says, pulling Harry to him by the waist and lifting up his shirt to press kisses on his stomach. “Let me take care of you first.”

Harry doesn't protest, and Louis stomps down the wave of arousal coursing through him when he undoes the three remaining buttons on his shirt and pushes it away from Harry’s shoulders. Harry shrugs it off, and then he’s shirtless before Louis, so much bare skin for Louis to press his lips to as he pulls Harry closer.

*

Louis’ first thought when he wakes up is that he feels hot, far too hot for his skin. He feels sweaty, like his shirt is plastered to his back. He didn’t wear a shirt to bed, though, he knows that for sure. Is it the covers? The covers are too hot, he needs to push them off. He tries to pick them up and push them away, give himself some more space to breathe.

“Louis, ow!” Harry yells in his ear, and -- oh, right.

It wasn’t the covers that were too hot, it was Harry plastered to his back, who had probably been sleeping peacefully before Louis elbowed him and gave him a rude awakening, literally. He rolls in Harry’s arms to face him.

“Sorry, love. Honestly didn’t mean to do that. I’m sorry.”

“‘S okay, was an accident,” Harry says, eyes closed even as he’s pouting at Louis. “But this is why I said I wanted to be the little spoon.”

“You know, I do think I remember you saying something about that last night,” Louis says, snuggling closer to Harry to try to make up for his mistake. He drags his bare foot up one of Harry’s legs, feeling the hair there with his toes. “How about you can be the little spoon tonight?”

“Sounds good to me,” Harry grumbles. “Now can we please go back to sleep? I was having a lovely dream. Stop tickling me with your foot!”

Louis just laughs, and then Harry laughs, and his warm breath fans over Louis’ face. “I’ll stop tickling you if you pay attention to me.”

“No,” Harry retorts, burying his head in Louis’ shoulder. Louis realizes belatedly that at some point in the night they’d migrated to sharing one pillow, and something about that feels intensely intimate to him, more so than Harry having his tongue in his arse, more than Louis having Harry’s cock in his mouth. Louis wouldn’t be opposed to that happening again soon, actually.

“Please, you haven’t even looked at me all day,” Louis whines, ticking Harry’s leg again. Maybe he can just maneuver himself so that he can draw his foot all the way up to Harry’s thigh, dangerously close to his cock, and then Harry will have to give in.

“Lou, the day hasn’t even started yet,” Harry says, the sound of it muffled from where he’s pressing in against Louis’ shoulder, his arm thrown over Louis’ waist. Louis is very comfortable like this, probably could actually fall asleep in this position, but there’s something else they could be doing with the time instead.

“Haz, come on, wake up. If you get up soon I’ll blow you in the shower.”

There’s a quiet moment, and then Harry pulls back, opening one eye. “You promise?”

The loud ding of Harry’s phone interrupts what was going to be the most important promise of Louis’ life thus far (under the condition that Harry return the favor, of course) and Harry goes a little tense when he hears it.

“That’s my phone.”

“Yes, Harold. I know.”

“I should get it.” Harry pushes the blankets down to his arse and gets up, trying to crawl over Louis to get to the phone.

“It didn’t ring, Haz, it’s fine. Whoever it is, you can answer them later. Ow, you’re elbowing me, stop it! That hurts,” Louis pouts.

“No, Lou, that’s my email alert. I have to check it, I don’t know who it might be.” He’s genuinely on top of Louis now, and there’s no clear reason why he’s chosen to go this way rather than just getting out on his own side of the bed.

Louis fights to roll his eyes. Really, Harry has to choose this moment to be so dedicated to his electronic communication? “Okay, but I’ll have you know you’re missing out on a really good blowjob.”

He thinks he hears Harry mutter something that sounds suspiciously like ‘that’s fine, I can just get one of those later’ but he’s not sure. At any rate, it would do them both good to pretend that’s not where the conversation was heading. Harry finally digs his phone out of the pockets of his jeans, which are in a heap on the ground where Louis left them last night when he took them off him.

He scrolls through his phone, a worried expression on his face. Then he’s reading something intently, and a soft smile spreads out over his face, slowly, like his mouth is being pulled upward by a string. He drops his arm to rest at his side. “Lou,” he says excitedly.

“What? What is it, babe?” Louis asks, sitting up and letting the blankets pool around his waist.

“I’m on the short list for the job!” Harry yells, his smile breaking into one of full blown excitement. He squeals -- actually _squeals_ \-- as he runs over to jump on top of the bed. “Simon just emailed me, he says I’m one of three candidates and he wants to interview me for it! Oh my god!”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing!” Louis cries, wrapping Harry in his arms and hugging him tight. “I knew you could do it babe, I told you, you’re amazing. I can’t believe they’re going to hire you to work for them, and then you and I will get to have lunch together every single day. You’re amazing, I’m so, so proud of you.”

Harry’s face is buried in Louis’ shoulder, much like it had been this morning, but this time he’s squeezing Louis tight, like he’s trying to expel some of his excitement.

“What else did they say, Harry?” Louis asks as he cards his fingers through Harry’s hair once he’s given him a minute to try to process it all. When Harry pulls back, his cheeks are wet with tears.

“I can’t -- I can’t believe this, this is amazing. I didn’t think I’d _actually_ have a shot, I thought he was just sending me here for the hell of it. But no, he’s _actually_ interested in my work.” Harry is practically bouncing on the bed now, which is a bit awkward with the way he’s kneeling on either side of Louis, but he’s so excited that Louis would never tell him to stop.

“What does the rest of the email say?” he asks.

Harry fumbles around for his phone, which he’d dropped on the bed in his earlier outburst. “Okay,” he says, panting heavily as he brings it up on his phone. “Okay, it says what I just told you, assistant photo editor, blah blah, three candidates, blah blah blah, interview at the London offices on Tuesday. _This_ Tuesday.”

“This Tuesday, wow,” Louis says, blinking twice. “But we’re supposed to stay here until Friday.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ll have to go home a few days earlier,” Harry pouts. “Like, I guess we have enough material, yeah? And we’re going to get photos at the bookshop later -- oh shit, I’ll have to say goodbye to Niall and Liam early. But you’ll be in London after, right? Like, this isn’t the end for us?”

“Of course not, babe,” Louis says, kissing Harry’s bare shoulder. “I can come back to London with you, I think we have enough to work with, like you said. Oh, I’m so proud of you. You’re incredible.”

Harry just beams, and he looks so young like this, full of breathless excitement.

“Up you get, come on, I’m taking you out to breakfast,” Louis orders, hitting Harry lightly on the arse. Harry gets up immediately. Honestly, all that boy needs is food and sex and he’s good to do whatever Louis wants. “Get in the shower, I’m not taking you out if you’re not decent. Can’t be seen out with just anyone, you need to be in tiptop shape.”

“Do I still get my shower blowjob?” Harry asks, all eager smiles and wild hair as he turns around on the way to the loo and grins.

Louis laughs, the sound bursting out of his chest. “Yeah, Harry, I think you can still get your shower blowjob.”

*

“Louis Tomlinson, there is absolutely no way that you’re taking me to The Ritz for breakfast,” Harry orders, digging his heels into the ground and letting go of Louis’ hand when he tries to tug him along. “I won’t allow it.”

“Please, Harry, I just want to do something nice for you,” Louis pleads, and in return he gets a stern frown. “Come on, I have a job, and you might have one soon, but it’s no secret that I have more money. It’s not as big of a deal for me, it’s honestly not a problem. I want to.”

“Louis, there’s no way I’m letting you. This is far too extravagant. There’s no way I’m letting you spend hundreds of euro on me for no reason at all.”

“You deserve it. And it’s not hundreds of euro!” Louis tries, but Harry is one of the most obstinate people he’s ever met, and he should have known that Harry wasn’t going to agree to this without a big fight. He just wants to take him out to breakfast to celebrate his good news; it’s not a crime to want to treat your boyfriend, right? Or like, sort-of boyfriend. Whatever, they’re basically boyfriends.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand. “Please, Harry, just let me treat you to one nice thing. You can make it up to me any way you want.”

“You promise?”

“I promise, love,” Louis says, leaning in to drop a hand on Harry’s shoulder and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “If it makes you feel better, you can think of it as our end of trip breakfast. I’ve done that with people I’ve gone on trips before, okay? There’s nothing weird about it.”

He’s not going to tell Harry that those end of trip dinners were usually at like, a diner, or a tiny restaurant tucked in the middle of nowhere, usually costing less than thirty pounds. He doesn’t need to know that. Harry also doesn't need to know that, yeah, he’ll probably have to eat ramen for the first week he’s back home to make up for the cost of this. But it'll be worth it.

Harry sighs and still looks uncertain. “Please?” Louis asks, on his last nerve here. If Harry doesn’t agree to this, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. “I promise you can repay me in some other way if you really want to, but _please_ just let me do this one thing for you.”

“Okay,” Harry says quietly, and Louis kisses him right there in the middle of the sidewalk, right next to the hotel’s doorman, for everyone to see.

“Thank you,” whispers Louis. “I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

*

“Okay, so you were right, that was totally worth it,” Harry says, rubbing his stomach as they leave the Ritz a few hours later.

“Those eggs have to be from, like, rich, spoiled chickens or something,” Louis says as they clasp hands and walk down the street. “Like, how can they taste so good? Do they let the hens sleep on silk pillows and play them classical music with a trained violinist to get them to sleep properly?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry says, shaking his head, but the smile on his face says otherwise. It says, ‘you might be a little bit insane, but I kinda think you’re the cutest person I’ve ever met.’ Louis could be projecting. But that’s how _he_ feels about Harry, and it seems safe to say that he and Harry are on the same page with their feelings for one another.

“So, where to?” Louis asks.

“Well, you made a good point that I’m gonna have to find something to wear for the interview. Like...what do I wear? A suit?”

Louis thinks back to what he wore to his job interview. It feels so long ago, like he can’t remember anything he did professionally before he had this position. “Yeah, I think you’ll be good if you wear a suit. Do you have a briefcase?”

“Yeah, I have one from uni. I suppose I shouldn’t bring my camera to the interview?”

Louis laughs. “No, love, I don’t think you’ll need to bring your camera. I know it’s your baby and you like to take her everywhere, but I don’t think they’ll be commenting on your photographic form during the interview.”

“But I thought you loved my photographic form,” Harry complains. “I always catch you staring at my arse when I’m taking pictures.”

“Shut up,” Louis retorts, letting go of Harry’s hand and crossing his arms across his chest in defiance as they walk. “You do not.”

“I totally do,” Harry says. “But that’s okay, I like it. Make me feel like I’m doing a good job.”

“Honestly, you are _so_ weird,” Louis says, but he betrays that statement by reaching for Harry’s hand again just as he says it. There. It’s better when they’re holding hands.

“So let’s walk up the Champs-Élysées. A million shops along there. We’ll definitely be able to find you something there, babe.”

*

Louis probably should have known this, what with Harry’s ridiculous blouses and his large collection of boots (Louis is dying to see what the inside of his closet looks like, if only so he can goodnaturedly mock him until the end of time about it), but Harry has a very distinct fashion sense.

“Louis, I told you, I can’t just wear any old suit. It has to be the right one. Especially if I’m going to pay all this money for it, and in Paris too. It can’t just be, like, a _normal_ one.”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to let you purchase that ridiculous pink floral ensemble you’re wearing right now. It’s an interview, not an awards show.”

“This looks incredible on me, though,” Harry pouts. The salesgirl behind them laughs; she’s long given up on trying to find anything both of them will agree on, and seems content to let the two of them duke it out themselves.

“It does, but if I hadn’t been in the loo when you put it on you wouldn’t be wearing it at all. Because that is definitely not an interview outfit.”

“Fine,” Harry says dramatically after a moment of heavy sighing. “But can you take a photo of me wearing this anyway? I want to send it to my sister. _She_ will appreciate it.” Harry is impossible. And impossibly charming.

*

It takes them two hours, but they finally find a suit for Harry to wear to the interview, one that Harry deems fashionable enough and Louis deems suitable for the office. Harry also picks up a white long sleeved blouse that looks like any other ordinary shirt to Louis while Harry argues that it’s not, because of some kind of special silk. Fine, whatever. Louis doesn’t care what it’s made of, as long as he gets to take it off Harry at the end of the day.

“Okay, so we’ll go see Niall and break the news to him that I’m leaving?” Harry asks. “He’s going to be so sad.”

“The news that _we’re_ leaving,” Louis amends. “I was serious earlier. I’m coming too.”

“Lou, you don’t need to cut your trip short for me,” Harry protests.

“I want to. I can help you prep for the interview, answer any questions you have about the office. Who’s going to be a better teacher for a job in my office than I will?”

Harry sighs. “Okay, that’s true. I just feel bad about you going back to London when you could be here exploring Paris.”

Louis shifts the bag he’s holding to his outside arm and slips his hand into Harry’s. “Babe, I told you. I want to. Plus, it wouldn’t be much fun if I was here exploring all by myself. I’d be so lonely in that hotel room, I have no idea how I’d occupy my time…” His voice goes sultry, aiming for sexy, but it fails, and he one hundred percent deserves the slap to the forearm that he gets in return.

“Wait, Lou,” Harry says, tugging on his hand as they approach the metro station at the top of the road. “I can’t leave without going to the top of the Arc de Triomphe. I didn’t get to do it the last time I was in Paris, and I really want to do it this time. Can we please?”

“What about the bags?”

“Oh, right. Good point.” Harry frowns, and Louis tries to think of a solution. He’d be hard pressed to deny Harry this one request, especially when it’s something they can only do here in Paris. “Maybe we can run back to the shop where we bought the suit and ask them to hold them? Would they do that?”

They convince the shopkeeper to do just that, in fact, and that’s how they find themselves, twenty minutes later, climbing the stairs to the top.

“Oh my god, this is literally worse than the steps at Sacré Coeur,” Louis complains. “I mean, sorry. I know I told you three flights ago I’d stop complaining. But, honestly. This is horrible.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Harry says, and he sounds genuinely apologetic. “I didn’t think there would be this many, I honestly need to get back to the gym.”

“Why aren’t there any bloody lifts in this bloody city?” Louis asks, and the fit young man that passes them on the stairs laughs under his breath. If he wasn’t using both hands to clutch onto the railing, Louis would flip him off.

“Come on, Lou, just a little bit further.”

“I cannot believe I let you trap me into this mess again. Is the view really going to be worth it?”

It is, it turns out. Despite the fact that there are long spiked railings obstructing the background for great photos with people in them, they have amazing views of the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-Élysées and so much of the city.

“I’m gonna miss it here,” Harry murmurs, camera in hand. He hasn’t taken any photos yet. Louis has noticed through quiet observation that he likes to take in a place if he can, before he takes any photos. It’s like he wants to experience it for himself first, before capturing it for someone else. That’s something Louis really admires about him, his ability to do what he needs to do for himself first.

“Me too,” Louis admits, and he hadn’t thought about it, but yeah, he is going to miss it. “It has definitely been an adventure that I was not expecting.”

Harry looks pensive, standing against the railing as he looks out onto the city. Louis allows him a few minutes of quiet contemplation, and then lightly pumps his shoulder against Harry’s. “Hey, you okay?”

“What?” Harry asks, shaking his head as if he’s been startled out of his own thoughts. “Oh, yeah, I’m good. I mean, just, like, thinking.”

“Well, if you want to share, I’m here.”

“I know,” Harry says, nodding his head enthusiastically. “Just thinking about the interview, about what happens when this all ends.”

Louis takes Harry’s shoulders in his hands and turns him so that they’re facing each other. “Hey, listen. You’re _really_ good at this. I’ll tell you a hundred times a day if I have to, but it’s gonna be true whether I say it every second of every day or if I never say it at all.”

“You promise?” Harry asks, and the insecurity in his voice makes Louis wants to rush him back to the hotel and wrap him in a blanket and shower him with compliments until he realizes how wonderful he is.

“I swear it. I don’t give compliments lightly, not even to pretty boys with dazzling green eyes.”

“You think my eyes are dazzling?” Harry asks, and, _there we go_. He’s back. Harry Styles is smiling again, order has been restored, the world can go on turning as normal.

“Nope,” Louis says with a shake of his head as he turns away to see the view from the other side. “I don’t think your eyes are dazzling at all and I definitely don’t think you’re really good in bed. You’re proper terrible all around, actually.”

“Heeyy,” Harry says, stretching out the word as he follows behind Louis, his camera still in hand. “That’s not what you said this morning.”

“Well, things change,” Louis teases, turning around and bopping Harry’s nose with his index finger.

“Shut up, you,” Harry says as he snaps a photo of Louis’ annoyed expression. He looks at it on the camera’s tiny screen and grins. “No, no, you can’t see it,” he protests, pulling the camera away from Louis when he tries to look. “This one’s just for me.”

He goes to take photos of the view then, and Louis hangs back, just watching him as he works. Sure, he does enjoy Harry’s photography form for the view of his arse (which, although objectively not as nice as Louis’, is still pretty damn nice -- though it doesn’t hold a candle to Harry’s thighs in black skinny jeans). But he also enjoys it for the quiet, focused way that Harry works, like he’s willing to wait as long as it takes to get just the right shot.

It’s taken a lot of steps to get up here. But, he thinks as he goes to join Harry at his side, the view was totally worth it.

<< >>

“Well, lads, I’m really going to miss you,” Niall says, squeezing them both in a tight hug. There’s a customer at the register who needs assistance, but Niall seems to be ignoring her so that he can keep his arms locked tight around the two of them.

“Well, hey, we’ll get drinks with you before we go, yeah?” Louis offers, and Harry nods.

“Sounds good to me. Thanks again for the help with the photos, you were brilliant, Harry repeats.

Louis smiles at Harry then, the fond kind of smile he seems to be giving Harry all the time lately. It’s like, ever since that day at the Eiffel Tower, the day that everything happened, the two of them are so much more open with one another. Louis isn’t afraid to smile at him whenever he wants, isn’t afraid to stake his claim on him whether it’s with a long lingering look or his hand clasped in Harry’s. Not that Harry _belongs_ to Louis, per se, and Harry could never make that mistake ever again anyway. Louis knows that. But Harry believes him when he says he doesn’t want to change him. The difference is that Harry probably wouldn’t mind changing a little bit if it meant he got to live a long life with Louis by his side.

“Anytime, Harry, seriously,” Niall answers, and Harry has to trace the conversation back to remember what they were talking about, too busy focusing on how interested he is in Louis to really follow it properly. But, right, the photos.

“We’ll have to have a proper going away party for you, Haz, me and you and Niall and Liam,” Louis says, Niall nodding next to him. “Celebrate the fact that you’re going to be an employed man soon enough.”

Harry flushes bright red. He’s not used to having people do such nice things for him, and he’s not sure he deserves it. Especially when he doesn’t yet have the job. But hey, top three candidate is pretty good, right?

“We’ll leave you alone to work now, Niall,” Harry says, hugging him once more. Niall kisses him on the cheek, hard and sloppy, and Harry feels a sudden flash of sadness, like he’s already missing Niall even though he’s right here.

“Hey, you ever think about moving back to the UK?” Harry asks suddenly, despite the fact that the potential customer behind Niall is still standing there and Niall is probably going to get fired for chatting instead of working.

“Actually planning to move back there next year,” Niall says. “My girlfriend lives there, she’s dying for me to come back.”

“Okay, bye Nialler,” Louis says suddenly, trying to push Harry out of the shop. He’s right though; they really are probably going to get Niall in trouble. “See you soon.”

“What was that about?” Harry asks, stopping in front of the shop’s doorway to slip his camera back into his bag with squinty eyes. It’s mid-afternoon, the sun is shining, and he’s left his sunglasses in the hotel room. He’s suddenly ravenous, wants to tell Louis he needs to feed him before he starves to death. And wow, Harry likes to tease Louis for being dramatic, but maybe Harry is just as guilty.

“I just wanted to do this,” Louis says, and then he presses his lips against Harry’s right up against a bookshelf standing outside the shop.

Harry smiles into it, opens his mouth for Louis to deepen it, a practiced move by now. It’s comforting, this kind of easy kissing, like coming home.

“You talk about me being insatiable,” Harry whispers against his lips. “But you are honestly the fucking worst.” Louis smiles, and Harry’s eyes cross trying to get a good look at him without pulling away.

“No, I actually remembered that we needed to book the train home, if we’re really doing this thing,” Louis says, slipping his small hand into Harry’s and lacing their fingers together as they start to walk away. The first time they’d ever held hands, Harry’s immediate thought had been about how well they fit together, and it’s still his thought today. They _do_ fit, not just in the way they hold hands, but in so many other ways too. Like, Louis brings out the best parts of Harry, the parts he didn’t even know were there, the parts that make him better.

“Ugh, can we get food first, please, Lou? I’m starving.”

“What if we get something to go, babe? Ooh, what about that crêperie we went to one of the first nights here? When I dragged you out of the hotel room and bought you food and all I wanted to do was kiss you but I couldn’t? What if we go there?”

“You wanted to kiss me that night?” Harry asks, releasing Louis’ hand as a girl with an angry expression on her face walks directly between them. What a bitter and jealous person. Or, maybe she’s just having a bad day and needs to take out her frustration on a couple she doesn’t know. That’s a nicer way of looking at it.

“Didn’t I tell you? I literally wanted to kiss you since that very first day,” Louis says, and the way he says it, like it’s a foregone conclusion, a fact for him that’s as much a part of him as his acknowledgement that the sun rises everyday, makes Harry’s heart fill with bubbles.

“I didn’t know you meant like, the _very_ first day,” Harry protests. “But that’s good news, because me too.”

“You wanted to kiss yourself from the very first day?” Louis teases, and if Harry punches him in the arm for that comment, it’s because he totally deserves it.

*

Louis is in the loo when Harry dials Ed’s phone number. Harry’s planned it this way, because he has a feeling he knows exactly what Louis is going to offer if he overhears this, and he’s not going to take advantage of Louis like that.

“Can’t believe you’ve run off to Paris and found yourself a boyfriend, Hazza,” Ed teases, and Harry can hear the smile in his tone. “You always were a hopeless romantic.”

“He’s not my _boyfriend_ ,” Harry tries, and then -- well, he pretty much is, at this point. They’d said they were going to take things slow, but they clearly haven’t. In fact, it’s been quite the opposite. But Harry is realizing he isn’t scared of Louis, isn’t scared of losing himself like before. Instead, when he’s with Louis he just feels strong. “Okay, well, he kind of is. But anyway. Yes. He’s brilliant. You’re going to love him.”

“Well, I highly doubt you’re calling me just to brag about your boyfriend, Styles. I mean, if you wanted to rub it in my face that I’m single there are plenty of other ways you could have done it. So, what’s up?”

“Yeah, I was just wondering if...if maybe I could come stay with you for a bit? Again, I mean. I know it’s a bit of a pain, but just while I work out this job thing, and honestly, I’ll probably spend half the nights with Lou anyway…”

“Harry, you absolutely are not allowed to have sex on my couch,” Ed orders. “You cannot do that again. Okay? But yes, you can sleep there.”

“That was one time!” Harry sputters. “And it was a desperate situation.”

“I genuinely don’t want to know. But I look forward to having you stay over. It’s always a lot nicer when you’re around. For one, there’s homecooked meals when you’re there. And actually, I have a guest room now. That whole ‘signing with a record label’ thing came with some pretty sweet perks. Like, you know, an actual paycheck.”

“Aw, look at you,” Harry coos. “I'm so proud.” He hears the shower shut off, and he knows he has a very short window of time to wrap this up before Louis returns from the loo.

“Thanks, Harry. I have to run now, but I'll see you in a couple days, yeah?”

“Okay, I'll shoot you a text once we’ve booked the tickets,” Harry says just as Louis walks into the room, a fluffy white towel wrapped around his waist. He shoots Harry a questioning glance, presumably wondering who’s on the phone, but Harry just leans back against his headboard and pulls a funny face as he listens to Ed say goodbye. Louis laughs, and then crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue in response. “Yep, okay, I’ll see you then. Take care.”

“Who was that?” Louis asks as he pulls a pair of pants out of his suitcase. He drops the towel and slips them on.

“My friend Ed,” Harry says after a minute, after Louis has to repeat the question. But hey, he’s distracted by watching Louis dress, is he _really_ at fault?

“Oh right, forgot you were friends with an up and coming popstar,” Louis teases as he pulls on a shirt. “Planning to meet up when you get home?”

“Actually,” Harry says, swinging his legs off the bed as Louis approaches him, “I’m gonna go stay with him when we get back.”

“Harry,” Louis says, and it almost sounds like he’s chastising him. “I already told you, you can come stay with me.” He straddles Harry’s legs, basically sitting in his lap, and drapes his arms loosely over his shoulders. He’s only wearing pants and a t-shirt, and he’s soft and warm against him, and it takes Harry a moment to recover.

“I honestly can’t.”

Louis frowns. “Harry. Come on.”

“I really, really, can’t let you do that.”

“It’s honestly not a big deal. I have a cute little apartment in Notting Hill, you can come stay with me, and possibly never leave my bedroom.”

“What about my job interview? How am I going to eat?” Harry asks, and now they’re just joking around.

“We can have Simon Skype you or something. And I’ll bring you breakfast in bed every day.”

“Pity I spent all that money on the suit then earlier, huh?” Harry brings his hands to slide up under the thin fabric of Louis’ t-shirt, fingers splayed on his lower back. Louis shivers at the sensation -- Harry’s hands are almost always freezing cold -- and then settles into it. “But no, honestly, I can’t have you host me. I’ll come stay, and I’ll let you bring me tea in bed, but I can’t _move in_ with you.”

“Harry, why? It’s not like I don’t have the space. It gets lonely. I’d love to have you there. And you wouldn’t be moving in, you’d just be staying with me for a bit.”

Harry closes his eyes momentarily and tries to figure out the best way to explain this to Louis. “Okay, look,” he says, opening his eyes again, “I just don’t want it to be too much too soon. Like, I can’t take things like that from you. Breakfast was one thing, and I’m going to repay you for that. But moving in with you is an entirely different story.”

Louis shifts his weight on Harry’s lap, leaning back a bit so that his hands are supporting him around Harry’s neck. “Are you worried you’ll get sick of me?”

“No! Absolutely not. Never in a million years. You’re far more likely to get sick of me first.” Harry runs one hand up and down his back, _up, down, up, down_ , before continuing. “It’s just like, I can’t owe you for things, Louis.”

“Harry, it’s honestly not a big deal. Like, just until you get your own place. I don’t get why it’s such a big deal to you.” He sounds a little hurt, and Harry needs to figure out a way to fix this.

“Because I don’t want this to be like Andrew. I _know_ you would never be like him,” he says hurriedly, before Louis can rush to conclusions. “I know that. But I just need to have my own space, I need to find my own place to live. And I think Ed’s new place isn’t that far from you anyway. I already told him I’d probably be with you all the time anyway. So it’s not like I don’t want to see you. It’s just that I can’t lose _myself_.” Harry flushes before continuing, “And of course that doesn’t mean we couldn’t, you know, get to that place at some point...you know I would love nothing more than to wake up next to you every morning and make you fetch me brekky in bed, I just...I need it to come in due time. I’m not willing to risk messing up what we have by rushing things.”

Louis sighs, long and heavy, and Harry isn’t sure that Louis fully gets it, but he knows that he’s going to be supportive of whatever he thinks is best. “Can you still like, be naked and waiting for me in my bed when I get home from work sometimes?”

Harry snorts. “Absolutely.”

*

“Harry, this is _incredible_ , I know I keep saying it but honestly, I can’t believe that you went to all this trouble for me, this is fantastic.”

Louis whirls around again to take another look at the stadium, and Harry can’t keep the smile off his face. “You’re welcome. I told you, it was the least I could do.”

They’re at the Stade de France, the national stadium for the French football team, and they’re just finishing up an hour long tour of the grounds and the dressing rooms. Harry hadn’t expected it to be a private tour, but when no one else showed up, it became one.

And Louis is in heaven. Harry knew that he liked football, but he didn’t realize quite how invested he was in it, especially for a team that wasn’t England. He’s loving every minute of this, and Harry is loving every minute watching him.

“Thank you so much,” Louis says to their guide when he brings them back to the stadium’s museum, which Louis will almost certainly want to look at again. “Really, this was brilliant. A real pleasure. Thanks, mate.” He shakes the bloke’s hand, and Harry wants to laugh at the sight of Louis’ head bobbing with enthusiasm.

“Have I mentioned that this was an absolutely incredible thing for you to do?” Louis asks after the guide leaves them alone in the room to peruse the museum. “Like, I genuinely couldn’t have asked to do anything better here.”

Harry laughs, and Louis wraps his arms around his waist, tilting his head up to look at him. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you liked it.”

“Liked it? I bloody loved it!” Louis exclaims. “But you know my birthday’s not for like, eight months, right?”

“As if I would buy you an early birthday present,” Harry jokes. “I told you, I just saw the tour online last night and I thought it’d be a fun thing for us to do. It’s honestly not a big deal.”

This has to be the third time he’s repeated this argument. He’d led Louis to the metro this morning with a promise of a surprise and ‘wait and see,’ and when they boarded the commuter train that led them out of the city, Louis had looked at him in wide eyed wonder. He hadn’t figured it out until they were actually getting off the train at the Stade de France, and then he looked ready to drop Harry’s trousers and blow him right there in the middle of the field.

Which, hey, Harry wouldn’t have protested, but that wasn’t the reason he took Louis here.

“Well, I disagree. It’s a big deal. And thank you.” Louis kisses his shoulder, and they stand like that for a long moment, pressed up against each other. “Should we head back? I want to see the rest of my surprise.”

Harry laughs, gesturing to the rest of the room. “You don’t want to look at all this again?”

“No, I already saw it when we got here, and I’m hungry anyway. You are taking me to dinner, right, Styles?”

Harry laughs as he disentangles Louis’ hands from around his waist and leads them out of the room, toward the stadium exit that will bring them to the train. “Honestly, if I’d known you were going to be this needy, I never would have agreed to do this assignment.”

Louis scoffs. “You’re a big fat liar, Harry Styles. You love me.”

Harry thinks he just might, actually.

*

“I’m just gonna run downstairs to the concierge and ask them for directions to the restaurant, okay, Lou?” Harry asks, banging on the bathroom door to get Louis’ attention a few hours later. “I’ll be back in a couple minutes.”

“Okay, see you then.” Louis calls from inside, and Harry wonders what he’s doing. Shaving, maybe, or fixing his hair. He can hear him singing in there, some song that Harry can’t quite make out.

Harry slips on his boots and grabs his wallet before leaving the room. He moves quickly; he needs to get back to the room before Louis can get suspicious. He’s not going to talk to the concierge; he knows exactly where their dinner reservation is. That’s what Google Maps is for. No, he has something much more important to do.

He sighs with relief when he sees that the florist on the corner is still open; he hadn’t come up with a back up plan for what he would do if they weren’t. He quickly picks out a bouquet, ignoring the overly friendly smile that the young girl working the cash register gives him, her offer to help him pick flowers (“Are these for your girlfriend, maybe?”) and makes his way back to the hotel.

He stands in front of the doorway to their room, taking a minute to catch his breath. He rubs his sweaty palms on his jeans, and then hides the flowers behind his back before knocking three times.

He suddenly feels a flutter of butterflies in his stomach as he imagines what Louis is wearing. When he’d found out that Harry was taking him to dinner, Louis had insisted on getting ready in the toilet and refused to let Harry see what he was going to wear. Harry had indulged him, if only because it worked for his plan to make this a real, proper date.

The door swings open a moment after his knock and -- _wow_.

“What are you doing knocking, did you forget your key?” Louis asks, and then his voice cracks in his throat when his eyes land on Harry. Harry honestly can’t blame him; he wants to say something about how ridiculously good Louis looks, but he has to swallow twice before he can speak.

“Wow,” Harry breathes. “You look _incredible_ , Lou.”

Louis blushes. “Jesus, no, look at you, are you sure that you’re the same Harry Styles that I’ve been working with all week? I’m not sure, you look a bit too cleaned up to be the same bloke.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, leaning forward with a beaming smile to quickly kiss Louis on the cheek. “These are for you,” he says, presenting Louis with the twelve ruby red roses he’d picked up at the florist.

“Harry,” Louis whispers as he takes the flowers. His face is flushed and his eyes are wide, like he can't quite believe what he's seeing. “These are beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you,” Harry quips, and Louis lets out a shaky laugh.

“Cheesy, Styles.”

But it's true. He's seen Louis in many different outfits this week and he's seen him dressed in nothing at all, and somehow every version is his favorite. But there’s something about this Louis, dressed in skinny jeans and a blue button down with his hair perfectly styled, that makes Harry want to push him into the hotel room and lock the two of them in there for the rest of the night, dinner reservations be damned.

“Thank you,” Louis says, and Harry thinks he might see a faint sheen to his eyes, something like tears. “That shirt looks even better on you that it did in the shop yesterday. I love it.”

They stare at each other for a minute, and Harry would be content to do this all night. But he kind of wants to take Louis out on the town and show him off, wine him and dine him. “Well, shall we be going? I don’t want us to miss our reservation.”

“Absolutely. Let me pop these into the vase in the room and then we can go.”

“Okay, be quick please. Supposedly this place has really nice garlic bread, and I’m hungry.”

*

“It’s a beautiful night,” Louis comments as he slips his hand into Harry’s as they leave the restaurant. “That was delicious. One of the best meals we’ve had the whole time we’ve been here. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I loved the atmosphere of the place. Very cozy.”

“It was,” Louis agrees. “The tables, the candlelight, the wine...oh _so_ romantic. If I didn’t know you were already head over heels for me, I may just think you were trying to get into my pants.”

Harry snorts. Louis is _so_ dramatic, and Harry is _so_ gone for him. “I think you’re a sure thing, babe,” Harry says, and Louis makes a quiet murmur of agreement. “Hey, you wanna go see the Louvre? I heard it’s beautiful all lit up at night. We won’t even have to go inside. Well, we won’t be able to, cause it’s closed. But, you know...I just mean I won’t drag you in to see the art again,” Harry rambles, letting one little comment drag out for far longer than he means to.

“Yeah, okay, Prince Charming,” Louis says with a little laugh. “Lead the way.”

The Louvre is indeed beautiful lit up at night, it turns out; Harry’s glad the guidebook he’d consulted on the Eurostar ride when he was first coming to the city had been correct on that point. That feels like a lifetime ago, though it’s been less than two weeks. He can still remember how nervous he was, but how he’d tried to brush it off and act like he was totally fine when his mum insisted on accompanying him to t the train station. He can remember how he got to the hotel room and was just amazed, looking down on the road from the balcony, amazed that he was getting paid to be here and take photos. Less than two weeks later, he’s still uncertain of his future, but he’s hopeful. And it certainly doesn’t hurt that he’s got Louis by his side, holding his hand and making him feel like it’s all going to be okay.

“Let’s take a picture,” Harry announces after they’ve stared at the beautiful, immaculately lit pyramid for a few minutes. “I want to remember this.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, and Harry has butterflies at the sight. Louis is _so_ lovely, and Harry’s not sure he even realizes it. “Of course you do. I’m surprised you didn’t pull out your camera immediately.”

“No, I want a picture of the two of us.”

“Alright, Haz, how do you want me?” Harry is certain Louis couldn’t refrain from sexual innuendos if his life depended on it. Harry gives Louis a once over, and the truth is that he does want him lots of ways, but right now all he wants is for Louis to stand there and look pretty while Harry takes a photo of them. Not like that’ll be tricky for him; he’s always gorgeous.

“Just stand here next to me.” Harry turns him by the shoulders so that he’s off to the side of the pyramid. He positions himself next to Louis, and then holds out the camera in front of them, his arms outstretched so that he can fit both of them plus the museum in the frame. Louis isn’t ready for the first one, is too busy laughing for no reason at all, but Harry takes it anyway.

For the second one, Harry tells him to be serious, to smile properly. He’s just hitting the shutter button when Louis darts forward and presses his soft lips to Harry’s cheek. The camera catches Harry’s wide-eyed surprise and the beginning of his laughter, and Harry thinks the shot is perfect.

Louis turns to stand in front of Harry, grasping the back of his blouse in two fists as he stares up at him. “You gonna take a picture of this?” he asks softly, breaking the stillness of the night before he leans in to kiss Harry.

“I might,” Harry answers a few minutes later, when they’ve separated to catch their breath. “Kiss me again.”

He does end up taking a picture of it, because, hey, he can never have too many photos of Louis.

*

They’re starting their walk back to the hotel when Louis pulls him by the hand and says, “Wait, wait, there’s something we need to do.”

Harry doesn’t have time to ask what he’s talking about, because Louis is still dragging him by the hand along the pathway by the river, and he only comes to a stop when they’ve reached a bridge. There’s a guitarist on the other end, and Harry can make out only the faintest strains of music from where they’re standing.

“What are we doing, Lou?” Harry asks, trying to catch his breath.

“This is the Pont des Arts. The lock bridge, some call it. See all the locks all along the sides?” Harry takes a step closer, and, yeah, he can see what looks like thousands and thousands of locks glinting in the moonlight all the way across the bridge.

“So,” Louis continues, “Simon wanted me to tell you to come here for the article, and yeah, we can still get a photo of it, but I kinda just wanted to take you here...for us.”

“Why?” Harry asks, not meaning it to come out as short as it sounds. “I just mean like, for what reason? What’s so special about it?”

“Well, young Harold,” Louis begins, dramatically pulling Harry by the hand onto the bridge, their footsteps quiet on the wooden slats. “All of these locks are from couples who came here to seal their love. The tradition is that if you write your initials on the lock and throw the key into the river, your love will never die. And I know we’re not quite there yet, but...maybe we could be one day. So I just wanted to bring you here as a promise, to tell you that I know I’ll mess up, and I know that some days I might make you cry, but I would never, ever intentionally hurt you, Harry Styles.”

“Lou,” Harry breathes, and he doesn't know what to say. That’s been happening more and more around Louis, but there’s nothing disconcerting about it. He brings one thumb up to softly trace Louis’ cheekbone, trying to convey his feelings through a gentle touch. “I know. Listen, I know you'd never be like him. I’ve been thinking about it.” His heart is racing a million miles a minute, but Louis’ gentle gaze staring up at him is enough to steady him for the moment, enough to encourage him to continue.

“And I know it’s only been a couple of days, but I know I can’t let you go just because I’m scared of losing a piece of myself again. And so I want to give it a real shot, give _us_ a real shot. So if you’re still up for it, I’m all in for the whole...relationship thing. I want it. I really, really want it.”

Louis laughs, bright and bell clear, a sound that Harry hopes he’ll never forget as long as he lives. “Are you serious?” His voice sounds choked.

“Yes, I’m serious.” He wraps Louis in a tight hug, cradling him in his arms as he presses his cheek against the side of his head so that he can speak directly in his ear. “I want you, all of you. I don’t want to miss out on something really great just because I’m scared. I don’t entirely know why, but I trust you. Even though it’s scary, I do. So...will you be my boyfriend? Like, officially?”

Louis laughs again, and this time he’s definitely crying. God, you’d think from the way the two of them are acting that they’d just gotten engaged. But no, that had already happened the other day, at least the practice version. “Yes, Harry, of course, you knob. I’ve wanted to be your boyfriend pretty much since the first time  you opened your mouth.”

Harry laughs and presses a kiss to the side of Louis’ head. “Well, I did too. I’m sorry it took me so long to catch up. But I’m here now and I’m all in. I’m not gonna be scared anymore.”

“Me either,” Louis says, pulling away from Harry so that he can grab his hands, swinging their arms in between them. “We’ll figure this all out together, okay?” Harry nods.

“I’m so happy,” Harry says, and then he’s wiping his own tears away.

“Me too, love,” Louis says through a shaky laugh as he leans in for a kiss. “Me too.”

*

“Can’t believe you’re leavin’ us tomorrow, lads,” Niall says, voice slurred as he stands close to Louis and Harry. He’s practically yelling in their ears, though he doesn’t need to. The pub is loud, but it’s not overwhelmingly so. Niall is just very inebriated, basically. Which is strange, because he’d said he had a very high alcohol tolerance. Huh. They must have had more rounds than Harry realized.

“Lads, have I told you how nice it is to be at a pub and not have to be the one behind the bar?” Liam asks, and Niall groans.

“Only about five times tonight, Payno. Give it a rest. We get it, you’re glad we’re at a different pub this time.”

Harry’s trying to follow the thread of the conversation going on, but he’s not very sober and so it’s proving to be a struggle. He leans his head down and presses a kiss to Louis’ shoulder through the fabric of his denim jacket. Louis looks up at him then, turning his head so that they’re making eye contact. Their faces are just inches apart, and Harry suddenly wants nothing more than to kiss him right this minute.

“Are you sure the two of you have to leave?” Liam asks. “I’d rather trade one of you for Niall, you can send him back to London and one of you can stay. You up for it, Louis?”

Harry pouts. Louis can’t leave him. He’s his boyfriend. They’re a team.

“If Louis is staying, then I’m staying,” Harry declares, wrapping his arm around Louis’ waist and pulling him to his own side. He must be a little too forceful with the movement, because Louis’ drinks sloshes out over the top.

“Oh god, did you ruin my shoes?” Louis cries, and, _oh fuck_. He hopes not; he doesn’t want to have to buy Louis a replacement pair of trainers.

“You can’t take Louis away from me,” Harry slurs, and as he tries to swallow a sip of his drink he realizes that he’s far drunker than he initially thought. He presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth and can’t feel a thing. Yup. Very drunk.

“Yeah, yeah, we get it. You and Louis are gonna get married and have twenty-seven babies and you want us to be in the wedding,” Niall says, dead serious.

“I surely have _no_ idea what you’re talking about,” Harry retorts, but his face is flushed. Is it from the alcohol or is it because he’s embarrassed? Because, like, he wouldn’t mind having twenty-seven babies with Louis. Well, that’s kind of a lot. Maybe they can settle for, like, twelve.

“We’re gonna miss you though, really,” Niall continues. “Weird how one day you just walked into my bookshop and now we’re all friends.”

“A little like it was meant to be, yeah? Hopefully we’ll stay in touch,” Liam adds.

Suddenly Harry notices that the clock on the wall says it’s nearly midnight. It’s almost tomorrow, and Harry doesn’t like that because they’re leaving tomorrow. Soon they’ll be leaving _today_.

“Well, it’s been a lovely day, lads,” Louis says as he finishes the last of his drink. Harry doesn’t like the tone in his voice, because that tone suggests that they’re probably leaving soon. But Louis is also right; it _has_ been a great day.

Liam and Niall had both had the day off work, so they’d taken Louis and Harry to a park on the northeastern edge of the city, the Buttes Chaumont. Harry was thrilled because it was the same park that Rachel and Monica had a poster of in their living room in Friends. The picnic had been lovely, full of wine and chocolates and baguettes topped with spreadable cheese. They’d all laid on a blanket in the grass and Harry had braided flower crowns for each of them, made of daisies he plucked from the ground. It reminded him of the night of the almost kiss, but this time Harry was a little less drunk and ten times more cuddly with Louis. He was allowed to be now, it just seemed like the normal thing to do.

His favorite part, though, was when they’d made up a game called Corkball, which involved throwing the wine cork in the air and trying to hit it with the empty bottle. Liam had gotten a little too competitive and accidentally hit a man sitting nearby. The game ended quickly after that. After the picnic, they’d gone to dinner, and talked about everything and nothing at all.

Niall suggests that they get another round (“Just one more, lads, honestly, that’ll be the end of it then”) but Harry feels like he’s absolutely going to fall on the floor and collapse if he so much as has another sip of alcohol. God, he’d thought that he’d learned in uni not to mix cocktails and beer. He’s already regretting the hangover he’ll have tomorrow.

Soon enough, it’s time to head home. The metro closes at 2 am, and they don’t want to end up stranded on the opposite side of Paris with no way of getting home. Or, well, Harry wouldn’t be totally opposed to the idea since he’d be with Louis, but he’d prefer they spend the night in a bed.

“I’ll miss you, lads,” Louis says as he pulls the three of them in close for a tight hug.

“Me too,” Harry agrees, and they’re hugging with arms locked, kind of jumping around as they stand there. “Thanks so much for everything. You’re both coming to London soon, yeah? Let’s get drinks when you do.”

“I’ll be over in a few weeks actually, to see my sister,” Liam adds, “And maybe let her convince me to move back there. So I’ll ring you, okay?”

“I might be moving back soon too,” Niall adds. “Me girlfriend’s bugging me to come home and if Liam here leaves me--” he clasps Liam’s shoulder with a firm grip, making Liam cringe in pain from the force of it “--then, I’ll be left with a few friends, yeah, but most of them are utter shite.” He’s slurring his words. “You two are so much better, I swear it. Don’t want to go back to their shitty arses now.” The night’s alcohol consumption is causing Niall to slur his words, but his message comes across clearly.

Louis is quiet on the short walk to the metro, and Harry feels too out of it to really ask him how he’s feeling. A good night’s sleep will do both of them well, and then in the morning they’ll have breakfast and get a taxi to the train station. And, _oh shit_ , Louis still has to pack. Fuck.

Louis grips Harry’s arm and stays close to him on the way down the stairs to the metro station, and so Harry fishes two little paper tickets out of his own back pocket and hands one to Louis. He slips his own into the machine and goes through the turnstile. When Louis is through, he immediately attaches himself to Harry again.

They wait for the train with only a few other passengers. The past few times they’ve taken the metro there have been musicians playing in the stations for the loads of passengers, but tonight they’ve only got a few miscellaneous stragglers and a homeless man stumbling around, yelling obscenities in more languages than Harry can count. It’s a bit uncomfortable; Harry always wishes that there was something he could do for them, a way to make it better.

The train pulls into the station before he can fall too deep into his dark thoughts, which are a terrible thing to be having after midnight when he’s drunk anyway. They shuffle onto the train and fall into the seats, Louis slumped against Harry as he closes his eyes.

“Hey,” Harry says softly. “You okay?”

“Just tired,” comes Louis’ answer. “Don’t like goodbyes.”

Harry combs his finger through Louis’ hair and then wraps his arm around his waist.

“I know. But it’ll be okay. You’ll see them again, I swear it.”

*

The next morning comes far too soon, and Harry’s dream of sleepy morning sex, a nice shower together, and then a leisurely breakfast before leaving for the station are crushed by the fact that they wake an hour before they’re supposed to leave, and Louis still hasn’t packed.

“Harry, how am I supposed to do all of this in time?” Louis asks as he runs around the room in a panic, trying to gather up all of his misplaced belongings. He’s got his suitcase on his bed and clothes are strewn all over the room; no matter how many times Harry had tried to tell him it’d be easier if he’d just unpacked properly at the start, Louis hadn’t listened. And now he’s paying for it, looking through drawers for his favorite socks and finding his backpack hanging behind the bathroom door, of all places.

“Harry!” Louis says again when Harry hasn’t answered him, preferring to just stare at him and watch in amusement. He’s in what his mum would describe as a tizzy, just absolutely frantic. “Would you _please_ help me?” His towel nearly falls off his hips, and while that’s something Harry would be happy to see anytime, he doesn’t think that now is exactly the right time for that. There’s twenty minutes left, Louis’ hair is still wet from his shower, and the suitcase is only half packed.

“I’ve already packed, Lou, I don’t know what to tell you,” Harry begins, and he’s mainly kidding, but he knows it definitely wasn’t the right time for a joke when Louis spins around on his heel and glares at Harry. “Okay, sorry, sorry. Why don’t I go downstairs and put together some breakfast for us, and you can finish packing. Also - put on some clothes, please. No one wants you naked on the train.”

Harry knows Louis is really stressed when he doesn’t even make a joke about that and just lets Harry leave.

It’s annoying, of course; it would’ve been so much easier if Louis had just packed yesterday when Harry had done it. But he wouldn’t be Louis without a little bit of drama, so he’ll take it.

*

“My head is killing me,” Harry complains when they’re on the Eurostar later. “Why did we drink so much last night?”

“I don’t know but I honestly feel fucking miserable,” Louis answers, his eyes closed as he leans against the window and presumably tries to take a nap.

“Noooo, don’t fall asleep,” Harry whines, tugging at the sleeve of his hoodie. “I need you to stay up and keep me company.”

There’s a moment where Louis doesn’t move, and Harry’s concerned that he’s gone too far, that he’s annoyed Louis too much now. But then Louis turns to look at him, and all is well. “Okay, how would you like to pass the time, _sweetheart_?” Louis sure is bitter when he’s hungover.

“I don’t care, let’s play a game or something. Just don’t fall asleep.”

Before they can continue, a stewardess from the Eurostar comes by with drinks. “Can I interest either of you in a glass of champagne?” she asks politely. Harry turns to Louis and they immediately both burst into laughter. The poor woman has no clue what’s going on.

“That’s okay, thank you,” Harry says after a few seconds of laughter. “But actually, can we each have a water, please? Thanks.”

“Remember what happened the first time we drank champagne together?” Louis asks after the woman has walked away, her confusion at the two of them plain to read on her face.

“I remember,” Harry says with a smile. “I can’t believe that trick worked.”

“I mean, I had been wanting to kiss you the entire day,” Louis confesses. “Just swooped in and took the chance when you gave me the opportunity.”

“We should get some champagne again soon. Maybe after my job interview. Right now, my head fucking hurts and I’ve just finished all this water and I don’t feel any better,” Harry complains. “Please, never let me drink that much ever again.”

Louis clicks his tongue. “I’m afraid you probably will continue to drink just as much, love.” Harry pouts, but he knows that Louis is right. Harry’s never been one to turn down a good night out. “Can I do something to make you feel better?”

“Mmm...kiss me until I feel okay again,” Harry insists, bringing Louis’ hand up to his own cheek, appreciating the cool feeling of his fingers against his cheekbone.

“Okay, I can do that.”

*

“You’re absolutely positive you don’t want to come back with me to my flat?” Louis asks him two hours later when they’ve arrived back to London and they’re standing outside Ed’s flat. Harry is very aware of the taxi driver idling at the curb, waiting for Louis to hurry up and get back in the car so that he can drive him home.

“I’m sure,” Harry says, and then he pulls Louis close to him, gripping the back of his shirt as he hugs Louis tight. “I”ll miss you though,” he says into his shoulder.

“I’ll miss you too. You better text me nonstop.”

“I won’t text you when you’re driving, Louis. No texting while you’re driving, ever, promise? I need to you to come back from Doncaster in one piece tomorrow.”

“Love, please don’t cry,” Louis says as he wipes a tear away from Harry’s jaw. “If you’re really sad, you know you could just come with me, yeah?”

“No, no, I have to stay here,” Harry says. “You go see your mum, and maybe I can see you tomorrow night?”

“I better see you tomorrow,” Louis amends. “Gonna be weird to be apart when we’ve been together this whole time.”

“We’ll be okay,” Harry says, wiping his eyes.

“How about this. Why don’t you come to my place tomorrow and I’ll cook for you when I get back from Donny? Mum has loads of vegetables in the garden, she’ll probably give me some and I can make something for you.”

“By all accounts, love, you’re awful in the kitchen. Why don’t I come over and cook for you and you can prep me for my job interview? And I’ll handle the dinner?”

“I hope you know that any job interview prep will end in me fucking you on my _very_ comfortable mattress,” Louis says in a low voice. Harry’s eyes go wide. Thus far it’s been Harry fucking Louis and while that’s been amazing, absolutely incredible like no one he’s ever been with, he would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about what it would feel like to have Louis inside of him.

“You really want to fuck me?” Harry says when he’s found the words.

“I mean, yeah. Been thinking about it for days,” Louis says honestly. Or like, if you want to keep doing it the way it’s been going, fine with me. Just want you. I’m easy.”

“I damn well know it,” Harry says with a snort. “Yes, please. But only if I get to fuck you first, that’s the deal. We can share it.” He’s about two seconds away from asking if they can just go to Louis’ flat and start now. But no, Louis has to drive to Donny, and they deserve more than something done in a rush.

Plus, he remembers as he hears the angry beeping of the car horn, there’s a cab driver waiting to take Louis home.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says as he leans in to give Louis another kiss. “Now, you better go before the driver leaves you here and I have to deal with you.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but he leans in for another kiss anyway. “See you tomorrow, babe.”

*

Harry’s just settling himself into Ed’s new flat and has just unpacked a few of his things in the guest room. Or what he hopes is the guest room, anyway.

“I think you need better security, you popstar,” Harry quips from his seat at Ed’s kitchen island, where he’s been drinking tea and working on a crossword puzzle for the past ten minutes.

“Hazza! Hello there,” Ed calls as he comes into the kitchen and pulls Harry into a tight hug. “How are things?”

“They’re good, they’re good,” Harry says, and he saw Ed probably a month ago but he suddenly feels like there’s so much for them to catch up on, there’s so much that he needs to work out with Ed.

Ed’s been his closest friend here in London for years now, definitely one of Harry’s very best friends. And Harry is used to telling him things, used to working out emotions and feelings and the problems of life with him. That hasn’t happened much lately; it’ll be good to catch up with him.

“So where’s the boyfriend?” Ed asks as he flicks on the kettle and situates himself against the counter to face Harry. “Are you hiding him in the loo?”

“No, he’s gone back to Doncaster for the night,” Harry explains, and he tries to stop his face from falling as he thinks about it. It’ll be fine, Harry’s an adult, he can handle a night away from his boyfriend. Plus, Louis deserves to go home and see his family.

“Oi, trying to run away from you already? I see how it is. Might want to keep my eye on this one then,” Ed says, shutting off the kettle and pouring his boiled water into the teacup.

“No need,” Harry says. “This one is different.”

“Yeah?”

Harry nods. “Way different. Think you’ll like him actually. Like, like him for real, not just cause you think you should cause you’re my friend.”

“I think we both know that I’ve never pretended to like anyone you dated just because they were your friend,” Ed says, and Harry snorts. Because, yeah, that’s true. Ed had barely liked Andrew at all, and he definitely hadn’t bothered trying to hide that fact. And he’d turned out to be a very good judge of character after all.

“Alright, well, tell me about him then,” Ed says as he pulls out the stool next to Harry’s and sits down next to him. He pushes the plate of chocolate digestives toward Harry, and Harry takes one easily.

“The food in France was lovely, but there’s nothing like a good biscuit and a cup of tea in the middle of the day,” he comments idly.

“Ain’t that the truth. Now, tell me about the boyfriend.”

A smile rises to Harry’s face unbidden as he thinks about Louis. How to describe Louis to someone who’s never met him? “Well, for starters, he’s very loud...”

<< >>

Louis’ visit to Doncaster had possibly been the shortest visit home of his entire life, and he’d tried to act cool and casual about the whole thing. But the truth was that the whole time he was gone he was missing Harry, wondering what Harry would think of a terrible joke his sister told them all (he’d love it), wondering what Harry would think of the old-timey posters on the walls of his childhood bedroom (probably call Louis a dork, and then give him a kiss), wondering what Harry was doing right at that moment (hopefully missing Louis).

He’d tried to fight the compulsion to check his phone every fifteen seconds, but it was hard to go from being in constant contact with someone to speaking to them only sparingly. His mum had weaseled the information out of him that he had a boyfriend now, but he was almost certain that she’d have figured it out just from the look on his face when he sat in the living room and texted Harry all throughout their family movie night.

But he could settle now, in his car on the way back to London, back to Harry. He pulled off the exit for London, the one that would bring him to his house, and he felt something settle in his bones. The thrumming of electricity was calming a bit. Harry seemed to have that effect.

“Siri, text Harry,” he orders his phone, and thank God the machine actually does what she’s told this time. Louis doesn’t particularly like Siri; she always seems to have her own ideas about where he should go and what he should do.

He sends Harry a text telling him that he can come over in two hours if he wants, and to bring food. Which, it’s not that Louis wouldn’t be thrilled to buy food for their dinner, especially if Harry’s going to be doing all the work of actually cooking. But the simple fact of it is that Louis flat out has no food in his flat, save for a moldy pear that he finds in his refrigerator upon returning home. But the odds of Harry wanting to use that are less than zero, so he throws it in the bin and tries not to wonder how long it’s been there.

He throws all of his clothes into his laundry hamper and takes a quick shower, singing to himself as he works. He wonders if Harry heard him singing in the shower when they were in Paris, if he thought it was weird.

But then -- if he did, so what? Harry has plenty of weird quirks; he can put up with Louis singing in the shower.

He’s very thankful he’d had the foresight yesterday to call his cleaning woman and ask her to come by this morning to tidy the place up. She doesn’t come by often, usually once every six weeks and anytime his mum decides she wants to come for a visit. He so rarely has guests that it doesn’t seem worth it to him to keep the place tidy.

But he wants to impress Harry, wants to make him feel welcome here, so he goes around and takes out an extra towel and hangs it on the shower rack and stops by the florist and buys a bouquet of sunflowers to place on his kitchen table.

Soon it’s a quarter to six and he’s getting dressed in jeans and a nice t-shirt. Nothing too fancy, but still presentable; these are his jeans that he wears when he wants to hook up with someone at the club. Harry better appreciate them (or, more specifically, how fantastic his arse looks in them).

Should he even bother getting dressed? He remembers his words from yesterday, talking about wanting Harry to fuck him before they even eat dinner. And then he decides that, yes, lovely as that would be, he probably should get dressed all the same. It’s probably not polite to open the door to a first time houseguest completely naked, even if the houseguest in question is your boyfriend.

He checks his bedside drawer, making sure that the box of condoms and the lube that he bought at the local shop are in there. They are, just like they’d been the other two times he’d checked in the past hour. He’d chucked his old bottle of lube in the bin; he doesn’t need Harry to know how much he’d gone through that last bottle just with his own hand.

At five minutes to six there’s a knock on the door, and Louis knows that it’s Harry. He practically sprints across his living room, and then wills himself to count to five before opening the door. He doesn’t want to seem too eager, no matter how desperate he is to get Harry into his bed.

“Hi, Louis,” Harry says, a beaming smile on his face as he leans in for a kiss. Louis feels like there’s a ball of heat in his chest and it’s expanding, spreading all the way to the tips of his toes and trying to escape through his fingertips. He feels warm all over, and he shudders when Harry’s tongue brushes his. He can feel Harry smirking into it, and then Louis pulls away when he needs to catch his breath.

“Hi, babe,” Louis greets him as he picks up Harry’s overnight bag and slings it over his shoulder.

“Thinking of staying over, are you?” he quips as Harry picks up three plastic bags full of groceries and follows him to the kitchen.

“If you play your cards right, I just might.”

Harry hangs his interview suit in Louis’ hall closet, and then they immediately get to unpacking things and putting the food into the refrigerator. When only the dry ingredients are left out on the work surface, Harry whirls around to face Louis, pulling him closer by the side of his t-shirt. “Are you still up for me fucking you before dinner? Been thinking about it all day, been thinking about how tight you are...how good my fingers feel inside of you...how nice your arse looks taking my cock...”

Louis thought he felt hot all over just from their kiss at the door, but now he feels like he knows what it feels like to be a boy on fire. The flames are licking at him, his pants feel too tight, he might collapse at any moment. ‘This isn’t the end,’ he’d told Liam and Niall, but it might be the end of his own life here. _Killed by Harry Styles and the beautiful things his gorgeous mouth could do._ That’s what he’ll have to tell his mum to put on his grave. There will never again be a more accurate epitaph.

“Yes,” Louis manages even as Harry’s pressing sloppy kisses to the side of his neck. “I am very, very up for you fucking me.”

Harry beams. “Alright, lead the way, love.”

*

“This is delicious, Harry,” Louis says two hours later as he hooks his foot around Harry’s ankle and wiggles his toes against Harry’s bare leg. “You’re an even better cook than you said you were.”

Harry laughs. “Well, I’m glad I met your expectations. My mum taught me to make these.” Harry pulls his foot away from the tickling, and Louis’ leg follows the motion. Harry rolls his eyes but allows it anyway. God, Louis is really wearing him down, and he’s very pleased about it.

They’re sitting at Louis’ small kitchen table, both of them shirtless and dressed only in their pants. They’re both a little sweaty and gross, but Louis doesn’t care. It’s worth it, all of it.

“They’re really tasty, I love tacos. My mum never made them growing up cause she didn’t like them.”

Harry looks shocked. “How can she not like tacos?”

“Dunno, she just didn’t.”

“Explains why you just sat there drinking wine when I cooked then. You have no idea how to make them.” Harry sticks out his tongue, and Louis bursts into giggles.

“That is a massive lie! I did more than just sit there…” he trails off, because yes, all he did was sit there, perched on a stool while Harry worked. “Okay, fine. But I had to recover my energy. You wore me out.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it was so rough for you, laying there while I did _all_ the work in the bedroom _and_ in the kitchen.”

“Hey! That is a massive lie,” Louis protests. “I did a lot more work in the bedroom than in the kitchen, you said so yourself, you said that it was really good.”

‘Best sex of my life,’ Harry had whispered in his ear when he’d collapsed on top of him, both of them sufficiently blissed out from orgasms. Louis had laid there, trying to catch his breath and calm the beat of his racing heart as he was thinking the exact same thing, already wondering when they could do it again. It feels so different being back in his flat in London rather than their hotel room, feels so much more intimate. It finally feels _real_.

Louis reminds Harry of his statement then, and they fall into an easy banter, both of them really just trying to make the other laugh. Louis is on his second glass of wine, and he feels happy and a little lightheaded. How much is from Harry and how much is from the wine, well, he’s not sure. But it’s definitely a perfect combination.

“So, are we going to talk about your interview?” Louis asks as he’s clearing the plates from the table. He winces as he stands up because, _ouch_ , his arse is _really_ sore. It’s an okay kind of pain though; it brings with it good memories, Harry pressing into him slowly, dropping kisses to his chest, constantly asking him if he was okay.

“I thought you promised to fuck me after dinner,” Harry whines, and Louis swallows hard. Because, yeah, that’s true. He feels a little hot all over at the thought of it, wants to drag Harry back to the bedroom right now for round two.

But then there’s the interview. It’s tomorrow afternoon, and Simon’s not necessarily the easiest guy to impress. Harry’s going to have to be in very top form.

“I did,” Louis answers as he pulls some ice cream out of the freezer. He takes out one bowl for himself and holds a second one up. “Do you want some?” Harry nods. “And I will. But I really, really don’t want you to go into the interview unprepared. I want you to get the job.”

Harry looks thoughtful as Louis finishes scooping the ice cream and then drags his chair next to Harry’s so they’re sitting close, thighs touching, practically sharing one chair.

“Okay, fine. How about this? We practice the interview for one hour,” Harry offers, spooning the chocolate ice cream into his mouth and continuing to talk with his mouth full, “and then you can fuck me after.”

“Fine,” Louis answers. He’d have preferred to help Harry for an hour and a half, but they always have tomorrow morning. Louis doesn’t have to go into work tomorrow. “I can work with that.”

Harry smiles.

“Okay. So, obviously I’m hoping that you’re going to get this job. But I think that you should send out a lot of other applications in case this doesn’t work out. Like, I’m not saying it won’t, but it couldn’t hurt.”

“Already done,” Harry says with a definitive nod. “Well, I sent out three. Yesterday, when I was at Ed’s. Can submit a couple others tomorrow after the interview, maybe?”

Louis nods. “Okay, that sounds good. So what kinds of questions do you think they’re going to ask you?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the one helping me?

“I am helping you!” Louis protests through a mouthful of ice cream. “I’m helping you to think through the kinds of questions they might ask.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but he straightens up in his seat anyway. “Like, probably stuff about my motivations for doing this, what I think I’m good at, struggles I might have.”

Louis nods. “Okay, yeah, I think you’re on the right track there. So pretend I’m Simon. What do you consider to be your greatest strength in terms of the requirements of this job?

“Is Simon as cute as you? I’m trying to visualize him. You know that they say you should close your eyes and visualize a scenario happening before it actually does? Like before a race or an interview or something?”

“Will you stop trying to stall and actually prepare for this? This is a big deal,” Louis chastises, smacking Harry on the shoulder. “And no, Simon is like, one hundred times less cute than I am. Sorry, babe. I’m the cutest one in the office.”

“Unless I start working there, and then you’ll have some competition.”

“That’s true. Now, please, Harry, answer the question.”

*

Louis wakes to an empty bed. There’s a split second where everything feels normal, like it’s just an ordinary morning waking up in his flat. Then he stretches his arms in the air, and he feels the slight ache of a good workout (hey, athletic sex can be a workout, and Harry _is_ very flexible) and last night comes rushing back to him.

His hand immediately shoots out to the other side of the bed, and it’s still warm. He wonders where Harry is. Making breakfast, maybe, or gone for a run. Or maybe just in the loo.

He lays back down and closes his eyes, trying to decide if he can afford to go back to sleep. He probably shouldn’t. Harry has his interview in a few hours, and he wants to be there for him however he can.

Harry had seemed so surprised last night that Louis actually wanted to help him, so shocked that Louis was offering to be there. It made Louis angry to think that Andrew probably hadn’t been that way, that he had made Harry do things on his own, that he hadn’t been there for Harry like he should have been. Just the very thought of someone treating Harry like that made Louis see red.

He’d promised Harry that he would never be like that, and he fully intends to keep that promise. With that thought, he decides that he should get up and make some tea.

The shower is running when Louis walks by the toilet, and he can hear Harry in there, singing a song that Louis can’t quite make out. The thought of it makes him smile, picturing Harry in there, wet and naked in Louis’ shower, singing to himself as he shampoos his hair.

He hesitates at the door; Harry hadn’t woken him up to invite him to shower with him, but Louis also really, _really_ needs to wee. Maybe Harry will let him come in, wee, and get out.

“Hey, Harry?” Louis asks, pushing the door open slightly. “Good morning,” he calls into the room, voice even louder than usual because he’s not sure Harry can hear him over the sound of the water.

There’s a loud clanging in the shower, something that sounds like a shampoo bottle dropping to the ground. “Ouch. Lou, hi,” Harry answers. “You scared me.”

“You okay?” He’s still standing behind the door, head leaning against the doorjamb.

“Yeah, I’m good, just dropped the conditioner on my foot. Fucking hurt. I’m good though. Do you need to come in?”

“Yeah, just need to wee. But I can wait, I don’t want to interrupt your--”

“No, no, come in,” Harry interrupts, and Louis sighs in relief. He pushes the door open and pulls his pants down so he can relieve himself.

“Thanks,” he says when he turns around and pulls his pants back up. “You want me to make you something for breakfast? I think I have eggs, could try and maybe scrambled eggs or something...”

“Do you even know _how_ to make scrambled eggs?” Harry asks, and Louis can make out his indulgent tone even over the spray of the shower.

“I mean, no, but I can look it up on YouTube…”

“Do you want to get in here with me?” Harry asks suddenly, and the abrupt change of topic has Louis racing to catch up to the trail of Harry’s thoughts. But sometimes there isn’t a solid train of thought, to be honest. Sometimes he just says whatever random thing is on his mind. This, though, is something he can get on board with.

“I, uh…” Yes, of course he does want to get in there with Harry.

“Come on, get in,” Harry orders, and that’s all it takes for Louis to drop his pants and step out of them, leaving them on the floor next to Harry’s. He opens the shower door and takes a moment to stare at his boyfriend, standing there naked, wet hair plastered to his head, his cock half-hard. Louis feels himself flush.

“Well?” Harry asks expectantly. “You gonna stand there all day ogling me or are you actually gonna get in with me?”

It takes Louis approximately three seconds to join Harry under the water.

“Good morning,” he says quietly as Harry pulls him against his chest. Louis has to tilt his head back to look at Harry from this angle, and Harry takes advantage of that by capturing his lips with his own.

“Good morning,” Harry returns with a smile when he pulls away.

“So today’s the big day,” Louis comments as he takes the shampoo bottle from the little shelf and opens it with a click.

“Let me,” Harry says, and Louis squeezes a little bit of shampoo into his palms and turns around to face the wall. “Yeah, today’s the big day.”

“You nervous?” Louis asks as Harry works the shampoo into his hair, his thick fingers scratching at Louis’ scalp in the most pleasurable way. It’s crazy to think that three weeks ago he’d only known of Harry as his future partner for the Paris assignment, and now he’s in the shower washing his hair for him. Life has the strangest way of working out when he least expects it.

“Mm, a little bit,” Harry answers after a minute. He’s finished shampooing and is now trailing his hands down Louis’ bare back just because he can. “Thnk you should get a tattoo here,” he comments idly as he runs his index finger over the skin above Louis’ ass. “Maybe something that says ‘Property of Harry Styles’. I wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea, after all.”

Louis laughs. “Oh yeah? What’s the wrong idea?”

“The wrong idea,” Harry begins as he guides Louis to tilt his head back under the water to rinse out the shampoo, “is that other people can date you.”

“Wait, you’re not actually worried about that, right?” Louis asks, head shooting up. He gets shampoo in his eyes though, and he winces from the painful sting of it. “Because I’d never do that.”

“No, love, I’m not actually concerned about that, I was only teasing.”

“Good.” Louis relaxes a little bit, feels like he can close his eyes again. “Okay, I’m ready for the conditioner.”

Louis closes his eyes as Harry massages the conditioner into his scalp. He listens to Harry tell a joke his sister texted him this morning, and as he’s snorting from laughter, he wonders how he got so lucky.

When they get out of the shower, Harry passes Louis a towel from the shelf and then wraps him in a warm hug. “Thank you,” he whispers into Louis’ ear.

“For what?”

“For distracting me. I know what you were doing,” he says, pulling away so that he can wrap his hair in  small towel that matches the one around his waist.

“I have absolutely _no_ idea what you’re talking about,” he says innocently as Harry presses a kiss to the top of his wet hair.

“Okay, sure, we can go with that. But...it worked. So thank you.”

When he leaves the bathroom to head for Louis’ room, there’s a spring in his step and he seems to be lighter, less weighed down by nerves. Louis wants to give himself a pat on the back. He might be half decent at this boyfriend thing after all.

*

“You’re absolutely sure I have nothing in my teeth?” Harry asks for the fifth time in as many minutes. Louis indulges him yet again, squinting to make sure there’s nothing there.

“Nope, you’re good. Just like the last time.”

“I know, I know,” Harry says, running a hand through his hair and slumping back down on the couch. “I don’t mean to be nervous. I just am.” 

“Hey,” Louis says, scooting closer next to him on the couch and placing his hand over Harry’s where it’s resting on his bouncing knee. The bouncing stops when Louis makes contact. “It’s normal to be nervous. If you weren’t nervous it would mean that you don’t really care that much. But being nervous means you feel like you have something to lose.”

“But what if I don’t get the job?”

“If you don’t get the job, well, you can get a different job. It’s not like this is the only magazine that does travel photography. And also, you don’t _have_ to do travel photography. You have plenty of options, love.”

“I know, but this is what I _like_ doing,” Harry whines.

“Well then, I guess you’re gonna have to kick ass in the interview, huh?”

Harry nods, but he makes a stressed out groaning sound. Louis places his free hand on his back, running it up and down over the fabric of his suit jacket. He wishes that they had time for the proven way to calm Harry down and make him forget about his stresses, but Louis has absolutely no time to be giving Harry a blowjob right now.

“Hey, have I mentioned how handsome you look in this outfit?” Louis asks, placing his index finger under Harry’s chin to get him to look him in the eyes. “Like, I want to rip it off you right this instant. Perhaps with my teeth.”

Harry laughs. “Don’t think we have time for that, Lou. But, afterwards, I’m all yours.”

“Yeah, maybe afterwards,” Louis agrees. “Actually, do you want to go out to dinner tonight? I can pick you up from Ed’s, if you’d like. Just have some things to work on for the article this afternoon, otherwise  I’d say you could hang out here.”

Harry nods. “Yeah, if you want to pick me up at his place that would be great. I can do some job applications while I wait.Where are you gonna take me?”

“Somewhere where there’s plenty of wine,” Louis answers, and he makes a mental note to text his sister and ask here if there’s anywhere she recommends. Lottie seems to know all the best restaurants in London; she’s honestly more cultured than he is, even though she’s his six years younger.

Harry takes a deep breath and rises to his feet. “Well, I guess I better go,” he says. Louis stands up and adjusts his tie, straightening it so that it sits flat against his chest.

“You’re gonna kick ass, babe. I know it. Okay?” He wraps his arm around Harry’s waist and kisses him. Louis feels warm all over, the heat radiating from his chest trying to make its way out.

“Thank you,” Harry says, leaning his forehead against Louis’. They look into each other’s eyes until Louis goes cross eyed and pulls away with a giggle.

“You’re gonna be a star,” he says confidently as he ushers Harry out the door and gives him a tap on the arse for good measure. “Go get ‘em. I’m so proud of you.”

When Harry’s gone, Louis shuts the door and leans against it, his eyes closed as he sends up a silent prayer that it’ll all work out in Harry’s favor. He’s suddenly incredibly nervous, and he needs some way to get his mind off it.

Usually that involves either work or booze. It’s only one in the afternoon, so it’s a bit early for booze. Work it is.

*

Louis is ordinarily very good at distracting himself with work, but it’s been two hours and he has had exactly zero luck with the Paris article. It’s like all of his thoughts are preoccupied with checking the clock and wondering if Harry’s out of his interview yet, and he can’t even begin to write the article properly because all of his memories about Paris are quite literally tangled up in Harry.

He tries to write about their visit to Montmartre and Sacré Coeur, but he ends up consumed with thoughts of the bright sparkle in Harry’s eyes as he’d encouraged him to keep going until he reached the top. He tries to write about the long queues at the Eiffel Tower, but all he can think of is bubbly champagne and soft lips pressed against his. He can’t even write about the Louvre because all of those memories are tied up with following Harry around like an eager puppy, clinging onto every word he said about the artwork.

He’s clearly a mess, and he doesn’t know what to do to fix it.

In the end, he settles for going into his email inbox and downloading the file of edited photos that Harry had sent over, hoping he can find some inspiration there. There’s the one he’d taken of Louis that third night, when they went to get crêpes and posed by Notre Dame. There’s the view from Montmartre, the most beautiful thing Louis has ever seen (besides Harry, of course). There’s Oscar Wilde’s grave at Père Lachaise, there’s the exterior of the Opera House, there’s Louis and Harry posing for that older couple in line at the Catacombs, the night after their almost kiss but before they’d actually gotten together. There are just so many photos, each intrinsically tied to a different, beautiful memory, and Louis is utterly overwhelmed by each one of them.

He feels like an entirely different person than he had been that afternoon when he boarded the Eurostar to Paris for his assignment. Just, like, now he’s someone with an entirely new viewpoint on life. Not quite a whole new person, but he definitely has a new way of looking at things.

How had this happened? How did he go from being totally fine with his life as it was to this brilliant ball of color coming in and bulldozing everything he thought he’d known, wrecking it and then building it back up until he was left with only the best things? He looks around his flat and suddenly wants to redecorate it, sick of settling for his shitty furniture from uni. It’s like he suddenly realizes that other things can be better now too, and that’s all he wants.

Damn Harry for throwing his life into shambles. But, also, bless him for flipping his life upside down and rearranging all the broken pieces into something so, so much better.

*

Louis knocks on the door of Ed’s flat, and there’s only a short wait before the buzzer goes off. Harry had texted to tell him that Ed lived on the top floor, so Louis boards the lift to the top.

Harry opens the door to the flat and he’s only half dressed, wearing pants and an unbuttoned floral blouse.

“I know you have a button phobia, love,” Louis greets as he presses a soft kiss to Harry’s cheek, “but don’t you think you should at least do up one or two of them? And where are your trousers?”

“Hi, sorry, sorry, I know,” Harry says, shutting the door to the flat behind them. “Got home a bit later than I expected, I’ve been trying to get ready but it’s not going so well.”

“Well, it does always take you _ages_ to do your hair,” Louis teases as he follows Harry into the bedroom. He takes a seat on the bed and watches as Harry pulls on a pair of trousers, black skinny jeans with holes in the knees. “I forgot your overnight bag, I’m so sorry. But I guess it’ll give you an excuse to come back to my flat,” he says as he looks around the room. It’s fairly minimalist, the kind of room that Louis would go stir crazy in. There are fresh flowers on the bedside table, and he makes a mental note to buy some for Harry the next time he passes the market.

“How was the interview?” he asks as Harry nearly topples over trying to balance on one leg to get a sock on his foot. They’d texted a bit earlier in the afternoon, and the report had been generally good, but Harry had told him he’d give him all the gory details in person.

“It was good,” Harry says, shifting his weight to his other leg to put on the other sock. “I mean, I was so, so nervous, but I think that it went well. He seemed to like me.”

“Well that’s good, yeah? I mean, I don’t think he likes too many people so that’s generally a good sign.”

“He asked me a bit about you, what I thought it was like to work with you.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. Simon’s never made it a secret that he isn’t his biggest fan. And now that they’re together, it’d probably be an issue if Simon found out about them. Not that Louis cares, honestly; he can find another job, but he can’t find another Harry.

“Yeah. I told him all good things, of course,” Harry teases. “He liked my stuff. I just don’t know if the thinks I’m experienced enough; it sounds like the other two candidates have loads more actual travel experience. Like, beyond us going to Paris, I pretty much just have all that studio photography stuff I did, shooting events and stuff.”

“I don’t think that’s important though. Like, at least not _as_ important. What seems far more crucial is if you’re good at what you do. It doesn’t matter if you’ve photographed things in seventeen different countries, if you’re crap at it you’re not going to be good at the job,” Louis advises, and he’s not sure that he’s doing a great job of comforting Harry.

He gets up from his spot on the bed and comes to stand in front of Harry, brushing his hands away from the buttons of his shirt and replacing them with his own. He does up three of the buttons and takes a step back to assess the look. “One more,” he murmurs, buttoning another. He can feel Harry staring down at him, his gaze like a physical touch on his face.

“There you go, all set.”

“But now you can’t see the whole butterfly,” Harry pouts.

“Love, this isn’t the kind of place you can show up to half naked. And while I know you love the ‘butterflies in your stomach’ pun, I think you’d be better covering up a bit. Otherwise I might be tempted to try to take your shirt off at the dinner table, and I don’t think anyone wants that.”

“I would,” Harry comments innocently, like he’s talking about wanting to get some bloody ice cream or something, rather than about the two of them going at it in the toilet of a posh restaurant.

“Well, regardless, let’s just leave it as it is, yeah?”

Harry’s still pouting as he puts on one of his boots, and then it hits Louis like a freight train. _He tried to control me, wanted me to be something I wasn’t, was always telling me what to do_ , Harry had said, and Jesus, why hadn’t Louis thought of that before he tried to tell Harry how to wear his shirt?

“Love,” he says with a hand on Harry’s wrist, stopping him from putting on his second boot. “I didn’t mean it like that. Honestly, you can wear the shirt however you want. I wasn’t trying to like, control you or anything. I’m sorry if it came across that way.”

Harry smiles, and it’s a little sad. ‘I didn’t think that’s what you were doing, but it did remind me a bit of...anyway, it’s okay. You’re right, this is better for the restaurant anyway.”

“No, Harry, please,” Louis says, practically begging, “I honestly didn’t mean to be controlling. I know I told you that I’d never be anything like him, and I meant it. If you only want to go with one button, that’s what you should do. I’m sorry,” he says, taking the boot from Harry and dropping it on the bed so that he can take Harry’s hands in his own. “I mean it.”

“I know,” Harry says softly, and he leans his forehead against Louis’. “Thank you for letting me know. I think I’ll keep it as is, though.”

“If you’re sure. You look unbelievably hot either way though, honestly.”

Harry just smacks his arse and pushes him out the door.

<< >>

“Did you hear back from that job yet?” Ed asks one morning a few days later, when Harry’s sitting at his kitchen table eating oatmeal.

“Not yet,” Harry says. “Will you pour me a cup please?” he asks as Ed pours himself a cup of tea. Ed nods and takes a second mug from the cupboard. “Starting to get like, proper nervous about it actually. Feel like if it was good news I would’ve heard by now, yeah?”

“Has Louis said anything about it to them?” Ed asks as he takes a seat across from Harry and slides a hot cup of tea over two him. “Like, checked up on your status?”

Harry shakes his head. “No, he hasn’t. He keeps offering to, I think he’s more anxious about it than I am, but I won’t let him.”

“Why not?”

“Feels like an abuse of his connections, honestly. I don’t want to get any kind of special treatment just because I’m his boyfriend.”

“But like, isn’t that the point of having a boyfriend? Or not like, the point, but one of the perks?”

Harry shakes his head, but it’s a few seconds before he’s finished swallowing in order to speak. “I get what you’re saying, but it just feels way too soon for that. Like this whole thing is so fragile, I don’t want it to come crashing down on me because of something like this. It’s not worth it.”

Ed’s face spreads into a slow smile and, if Harry knows anything about Ed, it’s that that smile means trouble.Oh no. “You _really_ like him,” he declares. “Like, not just cause he’s good looking, or for the sex. You really _, really_ like him,” Ed teases.

Harry can’t help the smile that takes over his face, and he nods. “Yeah, I do,” he admits. “Like, enough to not want things to ruin it, ever. Not gonna let him go if I have anything to say about it.”

“Wow, who would have thought. Harry Styles, in love. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“I’m not _in love_ with him,” Harry protests, pretending to flick oatmeal at Ed with his spoon. “And you’ve seen me in love before, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe not yet, but you will be soon, I can tell. And I don’t think that was love before. I think that _you_ thought it was love, but in reality, it wasn’t.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Harry agrees. “He’s just like, he’s so good. He’s really witty, and he laughs at all my dumb jokes, and--”

“Well, he must be absolutely mental then, you should break up with him immediately,” Ed quips, and this time Harry does actually flick some oatmeal at him, which causes Ed to frown. “Hey, food goes in your mouth, not on my good shirt. Anyway, he laughs at all of your truly awful jokes, go on.”

Harry shakes his head. “And he’s just really good at his job, and when he talks about his family it’s like he’s never known anything better in his life, and he’s got really beautiful cheekbones and such nice eyes. And he’s just so _good_ to me, like always asking me how I’m doing and doing things for me just because and taking me out to dinner because he wants to, not because he wants something from me.” He cuts himself off then, because he fears he’s already said too much about Louis and if he doesn’t stop now he could truly go on all day. There’s just so much to admire about him; it’s not Harry’s fault.

“Okay, wow. You’re proper infatuated here.”

“Where have you been the past few times I was talking about him?” Harry accuses. This is hardly the first time they’ve talked about Louis in the past few days when Harry’s been staying here; surely Ed would have noticed something before.

“I’ve been right here. But there’s something different this time, you’re more lovey dovey.”

“Maybe the regular sex is getting to my head,” Harry jokes, and Ed smacks him on the shoulder when he gets up to put their mugs in the dishwasher. “Shut it, you’re just jealous.”

“I damn well am, you’re dead right on that point,” Ed answers, and Harry just sticks out his tongue. It’s about time that Harry’s getting laid on the regular. Casual one night stands weren’t his thing, he’d learned, and there wasn’t much of a dating pool back in Holmes Chapel.

“So, any luck with finding a place to live?” Ed asks, and Harry panics. _Shit._ Of course Ed would want to get rid of him soon, would want to have his own space back. He’s probably just waiting for the day that Harry announces he’s found a new flat and can get out of his hair.

“I haven’t,” Harry admits, “But I swear I’m going to start looking, I’ve just been so busy with this job stuff and trying to find time to see Louis--”

“You’re with him all the time,” Ed comments, but there’s no challenge in his tone.

“I’m not with him _all_ the time,” Harry argues. “Sometimes he has work events, or he’s actually at work, or he’s having dinner with friends...okay, fine, I’m with him pretty much all the time.”

“Hazza, I’m not asking cause I want to get rid of you. I’m actually asking -- or, trying to ask, since I seem to be doing a terrible job of it -- if you’d like to officially move into the guest room.”

“What, move in here with you?” Harry asks. He’s not entirely sure that he heard Ed right.

“Yeah, like, be my flatmate. It’s so lonely here, and when I go on tour in a few months I’ll have to get someone to watch the house anyway. And it’s not like I’m here all the time, it’d be a bit like having your own flat without having to actually pay for your own flat.”

“Ed, I...I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, if you don’t want to do it you can obviously say no. Like, I love having you here but I wouldn’t want to force you into it. But I just think then you’d stop tiptoeing around the place, you’d feel more welcome to bring Louis around -- which you can do at literally any time, you know, I really want to meet him.”

“Do you just want me here for my cleaning skills? Because I think that’s why Louis wants me to move in with him too, just because I like doing the washing up.”

Ed laughs. “Yeah, that’s exactly it.”

“I mean, I’d love to, Ed, but I can’t. There’s no way I’m letting you just put me up in your guest room long term without some kind of repayment.”

“Harry, you really wouldn’t owe me a thing. Like I said, I’d have to get someone to watch the house when I go on tour, you’d actually be doing me a huge favor.”

“What if I pay rent?”

“Rent?” Ed asks, and he’s clearly shocked at the suggestion. Harry nods. “Harry, not to sound like a massive prick here, but you know that I don’t need the money, it’s not that big of an issue…”

“It would make _me_ feel better. I’d have to pay rent somewhere else, why not pay it to you?”

“Harry,” Ed sighs, and Harry gives him his best pouty face.

“Please.”

“Okay. If you insist. But only the fair market rate and not a pound above that.”

“What do you think I am, rich?” Harry teases, and then he stands up to clasp Ed in a tight hug.

“Love you, mate,” Ed says. “So happy you’re happy. It’s been so nice having you around again.”

Ed has to head out to a recording session shortly after that, and Harry takes a seat on the couch in the living room and looks around. So he lives here now, like, full-time. He’s going to have to go visit his mum and bring a load of his stuff down, actually move into the guest room for real.

He should probably text Louis first, though, and tell him he’s got a more permanent living arrangement now. He hopes Louis isn’t offended. It’s not that he doesn’t want to live with Louis, it’s just that it doesn’t feel like the right time. It’s too soon. They already spend most of their free time together; living together this early in the game would probably cause a strain on the relationship.

Or maybe he’s just being silly. But, honestly, what couple moves in together after knowing each other for less than four weeks? That’s not normal. They can keep dating properly for a while, and then see what happens.

He grabs his phone from where it’s sitting next to him on the couch and types out a quick text to Louis.

**Harry (10:10 am)**

Hey love, do you want to come over for lunch? Have some news for you xx

His phone beeps a few minutes later with a response, quickly followed by a second one.

**Lou (10:15 am)**

Bit early 2 be thinking abt lunch, innit? I am still in bed Harold

**Lou (10:16 am)**

Also what’s the news u know i hate surprises

**Harry (10:17 am)**

Of course you are. Well please come over and let me cook for you, can make it breakfast instead if you want xx

**Harry (10:18 am)**

And I can’t tell you, that’s the point of a surprise!!

There’s no response for a couple of minutes, and Harry passes his phone back and forth between his hands, wondering if maybe Louis has fallen back to sleep. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened while they were texting.

**Lou (10:33 am)**

Ok I just showered be there soon ok also i hate u pls tell me

Harry just replies with a kissy face emoji. He stares at the little picture on the screen, wondering who he’s become. He used to never use emojis, thought they were silly. But Louis is such a fan of them, and he’d spent twenty minutes the other day explaining all the different smiley faces and what they all meant. So Harry had started using them, but only for Louis because it made him smile, and only sparingly.

He’s already eaten breakfast, but he’s never opposed to cooking pancakes for Louis. A second breakfast wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, either, especially not with Louis there to entertain him while he works.

He stands up and plugs his phone into Ed’s fancy speakers so that he can listen to music while he cooks. Ed has a huge kitchen, especially by London standards. One of the best parts about it is that there’s plenty of room for dancing. He switches on The Killers’ _When You Were Young_ and cues up a few of his other favorite songs.

He’s bopping around the kitchen, pulling ingredients off the shelves and chopping strawberries and bananas and singing along to the playlist at the top of his lungs. He’s in the middle of a particularly spirited rendition of Hanson’s _MMMBop_ when he whirls around to grab a spatula and sees Louis standing there, a bright smile on his face.

“H--hi, Lou,” Harry says, his hand over his chest as he recovers from the shock of seeing another body in his kitchen.

“Don’t stop on my account, I was really enjoying that.”

“Oh, okay, so you have a thing for boybands, then?” Harry asks as he rounds the corner of the island to pull Louis close.

“I mean, not one that I’d ever admit to,” Louis says as he leans up to kiss Harry hello. “In fact, I’ll deny it if you ever tell anyone about this. But I did have a really big ‘NSYNC phase back in the day.”

“No, absolutely not, I refuse to believe that you didn’t like the Backstreet Boys.”

“Nope, ‘NSYNC all the way.”

“We honestly might have to break up,” Harry says. “Sad, but true.”

“Ohhhh nooooo, how _ever_ will I make it up it to you?” Louis cries dramatically. “I positively cannot lose my relationship over something as frivolous as my choice of boybanders when I was fourteen!”

“Fine, I suppose that all can be forgiven if you’re willing to sit here and entertain me while I make pancakes.”

“Ooh, I love pancakes.”

“I know,” Harry says indulgently. “That’s why I’m making them.”

“Can you make me some with blueberries?” Louis asks, kicking his feet against the kitchen island in an erratic pattern.

“You don’t want chocolate chips? I thought you said last week you only ever eat your pancakes if they come with chocolate chips.”

“Well, yeah, but then you made the ones for yourself with blueberries and they tasted really nice. Thought I’d give it a try.”

“Okay then, yeah, I can do that,” Harry says as he drops a handful of blueberries onto the batter cooking on the griddle. “So how was your night?”

Louis starts into a story about going out last night with his sister Lottie (who Harry still has yet to meet, but would like to as soon as possible), her boyfriend, his best mate Stan, and Stan’s girlfriend.

“Or, he wants her to be his girlfriend, I’m not quite sure what the deal is yet,” Louis specifies. “You’d think I would have remembered to ask beforehand, but then I couldn’t very well ask while she was standing right next to him the whole time. They even went to the loo at the same time, honestly. There’s no shaking Stan when he’s interested in someone.”

“You sure they were actually going to the loo?” Harry asks as he flips three perfectly round pancakes onto Louis’ place. Louis stares at him, a question on his face, until suddenly it must hit him and his expression transforms into one of disgust. “Ew, gross, I don’t need to think about that.”

“Lou, you’re both adults. You have sex all the time. Hell, we had sex two nights ago.” Harry smiles at the memory, the two of them in Louis’ bed after a long night of drinking wine and playing Scrabble.

“I know, but it’s like, ew, I don’t want to know. Like, do you want to think about your sister having sex? Stan’s like my brother, I _really_ don’t want to think about it.”

Harry shivers at just the very thought of his sister ever talking about that stuff with him. “Okay, enough, I get it. New topic please. Let me tell you my news.”

“Yes!” Louis exclaims, but then he takes his first bite of the pancakes and he moans, actually, genuinely _moans_. Harry just raises one eyebrow, and Louis at least has the decency to look guilty about the fact that he just let out a moan that sounds surprisingly like the ones he makes in the bedroom.

“Honestly, you should be flattered by that reaction, Haz. These are delicious. Why haven’t you had any yet? Please have some, I don’t want you to have done all that work just for me.”

Oh, right. He’d been too busy staring at Louis and listening to him talk that’d he’d neglected his own pancakes entirely.

“I have a plate here,” he says as he puts two strawberry ones and one blueberry onto his plate. He’d worked up an appetite through all the dancing, and is suddenly quite hungry.

When he takes a seat next to Louis at the kitchen island, Louis puts down his knife and fork and turns to face Harry head on. “Okay, so what’s the news? Did you plan a trip for us? Did you get a new job? Did you--” his next words are muffled by Harry’s palm over his mouth. Harry is not at all surprised when Louis sticks out his tongue and licks at Harry’s palm. It doesn’t bother him; he knows where that tongue’s been, and he’ll survive a few extra germs.

“Ed asked me to move in with him,” Harry announces, smiling broadly. Louis just blinks.

“Oh. I thought it was gonna be like...” Louis trails off, and the confusion is plain on his face. “Don’t you already live here?”

“I do, yeah,” Harry begins, his enthusiasm a bit more muted now that he sees that Louis isn’t quite as excited as he is, “but he asked me to like, move in here full time. I don’t have to find a new place to live, isn’t that great?”

Louis still doesn’t look convinced.

“What’s wrong? I thought you’d be thrilled.”

“I am!” Louis insists. “Really, I am. I’m glad you're staying close to me; it would've sucked to have you in a flat on the far edge of the city or something.”

“Right...so what’s -- oh,” Harry cuts himself off as it dawns on him. Silly it took this long, especially as it had been a passing thought this morning. “Lou, is this about you still thinking that you need to host me or something? Because you don't, you really don’t.”

“But why would you want to pay rent to Ed when you could come live with me for free?” Louis stabs a piece of pancake particularly hard with his fork.

Harry sighs, trying to think of the best way to explain this to Louis (again). He knows Louis means well, but it's about Harry’s pride. “Because I'm an adult,” he begins, “and this is what adults do. I'd expect to pay rent no matter where I lived.” Plus, when he does one day move into a flat with Louis, he wants it to be a joint place that they pick together, not a place where Harry has to carve a space for himself and be worried about overstepping boundaries. He wants it to be _their_ place, not Louis’ place that Harry lives in. Sue him.

Louis pouts, and Harry places a hand on his knee. “I promise this has nothing to do with you, Lou. It’s just about me and what I know I need.”

“Okay,” Louis says with a nod, and Harry hopes that he’s been placated, that he’ll let this go and realize that it’s not a personal offense. “So does this mean that I’m allowed to stay over here now?”

Harry smiles, because yeah, why not? Ed had always told Harry that it was fine to have Louis over, but Harry had felt like he was encroaching on Ed’s space. But now that he’s an official resident, he doesn’t see why not. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

“So does that mean that we can go test out your bed?”

Harry smile widens. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

*

“So you still haven’t heard anything thing from the job?” Louis asks as they step out of the shower and back into Harry’s bedroom.

“No, Ed was asking me about that earlier. Still nothing.”

“Well, I guess no news is good news, yeah?” Louis asks as he puts one foot up on the bed and dries his leg with the towel. Harry just watches him, admiring the easy stance of his body, his toned thighs, his wonderful arse.

He must get a little too into the admiring because Louis swats at him with a towel. “Stop _leering_ at me, Harold. You’ve already had your way with me today. We can’t spend the _entire_ day in bed.”

“Who says we can’t?” Harry asks, sidling up to Louis. He fits himself in behind him, wrapping a hand around Louis’ naked front and resting his palm there as he hooks his chin on Louis’ shoulder. Louis can probably feel his cock against his arse, and he doesn’t exactly hate the idea.

“Hary, we literally just finished having sex. And you already want to go again?”

“What can I say?” Harry asks as he nips at Louis’ ear. Louis is tilting his neck to the side in this glorious way that gives Harry better access, and Harry is very, very into it. “I’m sorry you’re so fit that I literally could go again right this minute if you asked me to.”

Louis laughs. “Don’t you want to do job things for a while first? You said you wanted to submit a few more applications this weekend.”

Harry feels himself deflate a bit. “Yeah...yeah, you’re right. Ugh, I hate when you’re right.”

“I know you do.”

“What if I don’t find anything?” Harry asks, almost a whine, as he slips on a pair of pants and some joggers. “What if I’m just stuck, unemployed, forever? I’m gonna have to move back to Cheshire, gonna have to move in with my mum again. I am far too old to still be living with my mum.”

“You’re 23, that’s not exactly old. But you’re gonna find something, Harry, I know it,” Louis says as he slips on the same clothes he was wearing earlier. “Look, I can ask the hiring manager again if they’ve made any decisions-”

“No,” Harry insists. “Don’t do that.”

“Harry, it’s really not a big deal. I don’t mind helping you out.”

“Yeah, but helping me out is like, bringing me out to dinner or giving me a foot massage while we watch the telly. Helping me out is reciprocal, doing things that I can do for you in return. You getting me a job is a whole other story. I won’t let you.” 

Louis sighs. “That’s honestly not how it works, Harry. If I have the connections to help you you should let me use them.”

“I won’t,” Harry says, and he tries not to get irritated. Why doesn’t Louis see that this is something he needs to do for himself? “I really, really appreciate the offer,” he says as he kisses Louis, “but I can’t let you.”

He leaves the room, and he can hear Louis sighing heavily behind him.

*

He doesn’t get the job.

He finds out in the middle of the day on a Monday, exactly three weeks and one day after they returned from Paris. The news comes in the form of a succinct email that he reads as he’s making himself a sandwich for lunch. One minute he’s bopping around the kitchen to the sound of _Call Me Maybe_ , grabbing mayonnaise from the fridge, and the next he’s slumped against the counter, his phone in one hand as the half-assembled sandwich sits on the work surface next to him.

 _Regret to inform you...gone in another direction_... _wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors..._

“Fuck,” he exhales, dropping his phone to the counter and pushing it away. It hits the wall and bounces back, spinning on the work surface before coming to a complete stop.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he yells, and he feels the anger bubble up within him, and if this wasn’t Ed’s kitchen he would probably be taking the plates down from their shelves and throwing them against the wall. He allows himself a moment of imagining he’s actually doing this, and that works for a second.

He settles for picking up Ed’s throw pillows from the couch and throwing them against the wall instead, one, two, three, four, five. They bounce off and fall into a messy pile on the floor. Carly Rae Jepsen is still singing away, _before you came into my life I missed you so bad, I missed you so bad, I missed you so so bad…_

He falls into the couch, taking the final throw pillow and clutching it to his chest. The anger dissipates and he feels it replaced by a massive sense of disappointment. He’s gotten job rejections before, has gotten them in the past few weeks, in fact, but nothing has hurt quite like this.

He feels like a failure. This is all he’s wanted, and he’d honestly really thought that he might have a chance. Like this time was going to be his lucky break, the one chance for him to prove himself and say he was stronger than what happened to him. Now that chance has slipped out of his hands like grains of sand.

He’s a failure. He’s crashed and burned and now he has to pick up the pieces.

He must cry himself to sleep, because he wakes up to the sound of his phone ringing and a clock that shows the time as forty five minutes later than he’d thought it was. Reluctantly, he gets up, noting the mass of pillows on the floor as it all comes back to him again.

He wants to ignore the phone ringing, but it’s Louis, and he doesn’t want him to worry. It’s not that they talk non-stop every single day (only most days), but they haven’t talked yet today and Louis is probably just checking in.

Harry laughs bitterly at the thought, because, yeah, this Louis should be worried about Harry. He’s a mess.

He scrubs his hand over his face and runs his fingers through his hair as he accepts the call. “Hi, Louis,” he says, voice devoid of all emotion, and he’s surprised at how hoarse his voice sounds.

Louis is bubbly when he speaks. “Hey love! How are you? Do you wanna do steaks for dinner, I was thinking I could pick some up and you could come over? And maybe we can play some FIFA, they just released the new game today and I was gonna go pick it up after work?”

Harry doesn’t answer, too busy wondering if Louis is actually as happy as he sounds or if it just seems that way because Harry is so sad.

“Harry? Are you there?”

“I, uh. Yeah. I’m here.” His voice is still scratchy.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m uh, I’m… no, I’m not okay,” he admits, and then his face crumples and he starts crying again. Fuck.

“Harry. What’s wrong? Are you safe?” Louis’ voice is one of concern, immediate panic, and the thought of that makes Harry’s heart break into even tinier pieces.

He doesn’t want to tell Louis what happened, he wants Louis to still be proud of him for just a little bit longer, to think that he’s this budding photographer with loads of talent, rather than a washed-up failure who peaked in uni.

“Harry, can you please answer me? Are you safe? Are you hurt?”

Yeah, Harry’s hurt. But not in the physical way, not in the way Louis is asking.

“Yeah,” Harry manages. “I’m safe. I just...can you come home please?” He feels silly asking, he feels like a child, but he just wants Louis. All he can think about is being back in his arms, letting Louis hold him and stroke his hair as he cries into his chest.

“Yeah, I can do that,” Louis says, immediately. Like it’s not a question. “Do you want to go over to my flat? You can take a nap in my bed, if you want. Get some clothes from your room and put them in a bag, you can stay over tonight. I can be back at my flat in forty-five minutes. Is that okay?”

Harry nods, and then he realizes that Louis can’t see him. “Yeah, that sounds good. Okay.” He feels like a mute, just going through the motions like a robot as he goes to his room. Louis is still on the line, and Harry wonders how he seems to know just what Harry needs despite not knowing what’s wrong.

“Okay, I have to go now if I’m going to go tell my boss I need to leave, but I’ll be there as quick as I can, okay? I lo-- I’ll see you soon, baby. It’s gonna be okay, I promise.”

“Okay, see you soon, Lou.” The line goes dead before Harry gets a chance to say thank you.

He packs his things and then heads back to the living room. He picks up the throw pillows, methodically putting them back in their proper places. He spots the sandwich on the work surface, the mayonnaise open on the counter next to it, the tomato and the cheese sitting there too. He doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry at what feels like a bitter symbol of the before, the moment when he still thought he had a chance.

He throws it all into the bin and walks out the door.

<< >>

Louis fishes his key out of his bag as quickly as he can. He’s winded from running up the flights of stairs, but he barely notices his chest heaving. His one and only concern is getting to Harry.

He has absolutely no idea what’s going on, not sure if it’s something with his mum or his sister or maybe one of his friends, some life problem that none of them will be able to fix. But he does know that when he’d heard Harry’s pained voice on the phone, it felt like a piece of his own heart was breaking. Louis has never skipped out on work early before, has never taken a sick day unless he absolutely had to, but the moment that he heard Harry’s quiet voice asking him to come home, he was up and out of his chair in an instant.

He gets the door open (it’s always been a bit temperamental, and he’s been meaning to talk to his landlord about it for ages) and gets into the flat, dropping his bag on the kitchen island and looking around for Harry. He’s not on the couch, so he must be in the bedroom.

Louis finds him curled up in his bed, hugging the pillow from Louis’ side ( _whoa_ , when did he start referring to the right side of his bed as his own side? Shouldn’t the whole thing be his?) tight to his chest. His face looks peaceful and his hair is spread out in a wild mess across his pillow. He’s beautiful, and a sharp and sudden tightness lodging itself in Louis’ chest as it does every time he sees Harry and realizes just how much he likes him.

Except that he knows this isn’t just about _like_ anymore. He actually loves him, has been feeling that way for a while, and now it’s confirmed. He is absolutely, one hundred percent madly in love with him.

He’s planning to tell him, he really is; he just hasn’t found the right time. He feels a bit like he’s trying to find the right way to propose and failing, like anytime he thinks he’s going to do it Harry’s phone rings or he gets distracted or the moment’s not right. But, Christ, does there really need to be a right moment? He’s fairly certain Harry’s going to reciprocate. But that’s what’s stopping him. He can’t say with absolute certainty that Harry _does_ feel the same, and he doesn’t want to scare him away. He’d almost said it on the phone earlier, had slipped up and then stopped himself at the very last second. He doesn’t think Harry had noticed.

Harry shifts in his sleep on the bed and Louis decides that he’s had enough of admiring him from afar. He toes off his shoes, removes his nice work trousers, and lifts the duvet cover so that he can slip in next to Harry. He tries to be quiet as he does it, soft movements that won’t wake Harry. He scoots in so that he’s wrapping his arms around him, his body flush with Harry’s.

Harry shifts a little bit, murmurs something in his sleep that sounds like an acknowledgement of Louis’ presence. Louis isn’t sure if he’s aware of it, so he just leans over and kisses his temple. “It’s just me, love, go back to sleep.”

He listens to the soft pattern of Harry’s breathing, his nose against the back of Harry’s neck so that he can smell his apple shampoo. He feels full all of a sudden, full of happiness, full of love for the man in his arms.

He’s asleep minutes later, drifting into dreamland.

*

“Hi, Lou,” Harry whispers when Louis wakes up. He’s turned in Louis’ arms so that they’re facing each other, and Louis scrunches his nose when Harry’s breathing tickles his face.

“Hey,” Louis answers, just like it’s any old day, like they’re waking up from one of a handful of afternoon naps they’ve taken together. Except for that this isn’t a normal afternoon nap, because it’s a Monday, and Louis had left work early because Harry is in pain and Louis still doesn’t know why.

He sits up then, brushing Harry’s mess of wild curls away from his face. His hand lingers behind Harry’s ear as he gives him a soft smile.

“What’s on your mind?”

Harry sits up entirely then, the blankets falling to pool at his waist as his face falls just as quickly. He’s shirtless, and in any other situation Louis would be admiring how fit he is. But this isn’t just any situation.

Harry takes a deep breath, and then he turns to face the wall when he speaks. “I didn’t get the job.”

 _Oh fuck_. _Fuck fuck fuck._

“Yeah, that was pretty much my thought too,” Harry answers with a bitter chuckle, and Louis realizes he must have said that particular phrase out loud.

Louis feels frozen and completely unsure of what to do. This is entirely new territory for him. “Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry.”

Harry turns to look at him, and the look on his face is enough to shatter Louis’ heart into a thousand tiny pieces.

This wasn’t the news Louis had been expecting, he really had honestly thought that it was going to be something a lot smaller than this. Louis leans forward and presses a kiss to the hot skin of Harry’s shoulder, leaving his lips there as he brings his hand to rub at Harry’s back, _up and down, up and down_.

“I don’t know what to do,” Harry confesses, and there are tears in his eyes and the tears are falling and Louis’ heart is breaking but he knows Harry’s is breaking more. He pulls Harry to his chest and settles himself down in the middle of the pillows (fluffy, just the way he likes them) and lets Harry cry against his collarbones.

His whispers words into Harry’s hair and has no clue how comforting they really are, but he feels helpless with the inability to actually do something about it. He can’t help but wonder suddenly, painfully, if it would have made any difference if he had vouched for Harry again. He’d already tried once, even though Harry had asked him not to. It’s no way to think, but he’s thinking it all the same.

“I feel like a failure,” Harry confesses, his voice scratchy as he wipes away the tears.

“Oh love, you’re not a failure. You’re not.”

“I am, though!” he cries, pushing himself up and away from Louis with his palms on his chest. His hands are cold, even colder than usual. “I can’t even get one job, not even the shitty ones I’ve been applying to.”

He rolls over so that he’s on his own side of the bed, and he’s got his back to Louis which means Louis can’t even read the expression on his face to figure out where to go from here.

“You’re not a failure, Harry.”

“Honestly, this is why I’ve done things by myself for the past year. It’s too hard when I mess up, I end up dragging everyone down with me. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

“Harry, what the hell are you on about?” Louis sputters. “You aren’t bringing me down.”

“I am, though!” Harry says, flipping around, and the look on his face is pure heartbreak. “You keep having to coach me through things, and talk me down off the proverbial ledge, and promise me that it’s gonna be okay. And I should be able to do all those things by myself. I can’t believe I’m falling into my old habits again, not when I worked so hard to get rid of them.”

Louis looks at him, just stares at the shape of his face for a minute, his sharp jawline and his green eyes and his perfectly pink mouth. He doesn’t understand how Harry could ever say those things, how he could ever actually believe them.

“Harry, it’s not like I’m doing those things because I think that I have to. I’m doing them because I want to, because I care about you.”

Harry just stares at him and it’s like, he obviously has to know that Louis cares about him. They’ve had entire conversations about all the things they like about each other. They’ve spent almost all their free time together since coming back from Paris, and Louis has spent more nights with Harry in his bed than he has by himself. It seems a given.

“Me too,” he says softly, after a minute. “I’m sorry. I care about you so, so much. And I just feel like a massive failure because I really thought this was going to work out and it didn’t. I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to leave you and Ed and all my friends here, and I sure as hell don’t want to move back to Holmes Chapel.”

Louis pushes Harry’s hair back with two fingers, and Harry leans into the motion. He’s obviously just stressed, and logically so. He doesn’t actually mean what he’s saying, all those negative things. Louis needs to not be so quick to jump into assuming that Harry’s trying to push him away, and Harry needs to learn that Louis only ever wants to do good things for him. They both have things they need to work on.

It’s just that this relationship thing can be kind of hard sometimes. Louis loves spending time with Harry, loves him, _period_ , but it’s been a bit of a challenge adapting to someone else’s needs. It’s worth it because it’s Harry, but it’s still tough trying to figure out the best way to be there for him while still letting him be his own person.

“You’re gonna be okay. I know people at other companies too; I can ask around and see if anyone’s hiring.”

Harry slumps his head against Louis’ shoulder and for once, he doesn’t say no like Louis was expecting him to. Louis combs his fingers through his hair as he whispers a promise into his ear. “We’ll figure it out together, okay?”

Harry just nods.

*

“I just feel like a massive failure for putting all my eggs in one basket and assuming this would work out,” Harry confesses later that night as they’re sitting on opposite ends of Louis’ sofa, drinking tea. They’d taken another nap for a while before Louis had gently pushed Harry into the shower and told him to take his time. When he came out, dressed in joggers and a hoodie, Louis had already ordered pizza and told Harry that his arms were open for hugs.

“You didn’t, though. You’ve applied to a lot of things.”

“Yeah, and I’ve either not heard back from them, or gotten rejections. Not sure which is worse.”

“Maybe we should go back to the start and figure out what we’re missing. There _has_ to be something out there.”

“I am absolutely not going back and photographing children’s birthday parties. That was bad enough when I was in uni. I’m still scarred from that incident with the clown.”

Louis shudders. “I won’t ask.”

“Yeah, you’re better off not knowing that one. But like, I already quit my job at the bakery. I guess they’d take me back though, if I asked. They do like me a lot.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want to go back to Holmes Chapel,” Louis frowns. If that’s what Harry thinks is best, Louis will deal with it, would drive up there every weekend to see him if he had to, but he doesn’t think that’s what Harry wants.

“I don’t. But like, maybe I was a bit silly for deciding to move back down to London again without even the promise of a job offer.”

“I don’t think it was silly. I think it was brave. We’re gonna find something. I’ll talk to some people at work. Have you asked Ed?”

“No, you won’t talk to people at work,” Harry insists, and there it is, that force Louis had been expecting earlier. “Ed could probably use someone for his tour that he’s got coming up, but the whole point of me living with him was that he would have someone to watch his house while he’s gone. Plus, I don’t much like the idea of being on the road all that much.”

“I’ll just ask if they know of anything. Please Harry, let me.”

Just then, Harry’s phone beeps with a text. He sets his mug down on the table and gets up to get it.

“It’s Liam,” he says, sitting back down on the couch and folding his legs underneath him. “He says he’s coming to London next week and he wants to know if we’d like to get drinks with him.”

“Fuck yeah,” Louis cheers. “Does he need a place to stay? Tell him he can stay with me, I have a guest room.”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry says as he types out a reply. “We’re free Tuesday, right? He gets in on Monday afternoon.”

“Yeah, Tuesday sounds good. Well, I think I have a work thing, but I can move it. Tell him to sleep over that night.” He feels so domestic having this conversation; he suddenly gets a flash of the two of them living together properly, organizing a time for them to meet their friends for dinner. He wants so much with Harry, and he thinks that Harry wants all the same things with him. It’s way too soon to be talking about it, it’s too soon to even really be thinking about it, but he wants it all the same.

Harry’s phone beeps again. “Okay, Tuesday it is. And yeah, he’ll stay over that night.”

“Yesss, it’ll be wicked. Can’t wait to see him.”

“Poor Niall though,” Harry says with a frown, unfolding his legs so he can curl up next to Louis.

“We can Skype him in. It’s weird, yeah, like we didn’t spend that much time with them but I just felt like I was really good friends with them, almost like it was meant to be.”

“Kind of like you and me, yeah?” Harry asks as he looks up at Louis from his new position leaning back against his chest.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Louis answers, and he feels it again, the soft and quiet press of _I love you, I love you, I love you_. It still doesn’t feel like the right time though. “We’re okay, yeah?”

“Never better, Lou,” Harry answers with a smile, and then they settle in to watch Netflix. It really will be okay; Louis is going to make sure of it.

*

“So I got a text from Gemma this morning,” Harry says glumly as he stabs his fork with his salad. “She has a job lead for me.”

“And you’re just telling me this now?” Louis asks, rolling up the wrapper from his sandwich into a ball. “I have to get back to work in like, three minutes. Also, why do you sound so sad about it?”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry.” Harry genuinely looks apologetic, and then Louis feels bad. That’s the thing about Harry; he takes everything to heart. Louis is going to say that he didn’t mean to be so harsh, but then Harry speaks again and there’s no time. “So her boyfriend works for this travel company that’s based here in London. It turns out they’re opening a New York office, and they need someone to be in charge of it. It’d be a bit mad though, like, moving to America.”

Louis feels his blood run cold at the thought, and he thinks about how three days ago he’d had an internal panic at the thought of Harry moving back to Holmes Chapel, and now he’s thinking about being an entire ocean away? He pastes a smile on his face when he says, “So did you talk to him?”

“Yeah, I did. It sounds like a really cool job, but it’s just so far away; I’m not sure I could do it.”

Louis brings his hand up to rest on top of Harry’s on the table, and he rubs his thumb gently over Harry’s hand. “I think you need to do what’s right for you.”

“Lou, that’s so not helpful,” Harry groans as Louis stands up to head back to work.

“I know, I know. Just like, think about what you want to do. If that’s the right position for you, you should definitely apply.”

“You don’t think I should do it,” Harry says, and his voice is flat. Louis is very aware that he has to tread carefully here, and his time is quickly dwindling before Simon chews him out for returning late from his lunch break.

“I think you should do what would make you the happiest. Of course it’s far away. But there are airplanes, and if you don’t like it, you could always move back. But, yeah, of course I would miss you.” Louis knows it sounds vaguely pitiful, but he really doesn’t have time to get into it all right now; he _really_ needs to get back to the office.

Harry sighs, and he’s clearly not happy with how they’ve left this. He leans up for a kiss anyway, and Louis is more than happy to grant it to him. “I’ll see you at my place tonight for dinner with Ed? He loved meeting you yesterday, by the way. Thinks you’re brilliant.

“Um, he’s the brilliant one. Yeah, I’ll be there. And we’ll figure all this out, okay?”

*

The next week passes in another blur of job applications and sex and dinners together and Louis going for early morning runs on the Thames to clean his head.

Harry’s gone for a few more job interviews, but nothing has panned out; they like his stuff but he’s not the right fit, or they’re looking for someone with more experience, or the company is totally off base from what he’s looking for.

Harry is starting to get really hopeless about the whole thing, and Louis isn’t quite sure what to do either. The offer for the New York job is still on the table, and there are days when Louis feels like Harry is about two seconds away from picking up the phone and taking it. The whole thing is clearly very stressful for them both.

Louis really, _really_ doesn’t want him to though. He’s tried to make that much clear, but he’d also never stand in the way of something that makes Harry happy. He’s doing his best to let Harry make the decision because he doesn’t want to seem controlling. But it will break his heart if Harry leaves, because that will likely be the end of the two of them.

They’re brushing their teeth in Louis’ bathroom on Monday night, and Louis is exhausted. He worked a full day and then the two of them went out to dinner and to the opera. Louis can’t even remember the name of the show they saw, and he honestly couldn’t give a shit about the opera, but he’d go again a million times just to see the smile on Harry’s face. That’s something that’s been missing for too long, honestly.

“You okay?” Louis asks as they’re turning back the duvet a few minutes later so they can get into bed. Louis has to work tomorrow, but then they’re meeting up with Liam for drinks the minute he gets out of work, and he can’t wait for it.

“I’m good,” Harry says, and he’s smiling as he crawls into bed and fluffs his pillow behind his head. Louis stands there for a moment staring at him, trying to figure out what’s different. It feels like there’s a different kind of energy in the air, something crackling and bright.

It just feels different.

“Make sure you tell Gemma thanks for the tickets from me,” Louis says as he strips off his shirt and slides in next to Harry.

“You hated it,” Harry says, but there’s nothing malicious about it. “But that’s okay. Thank you for coming.”

“I didn’t hate it,” Louis protests, and then his face softens at the amused look on Harry’s face. “I mean, okay, yeah, I hated it. But you loved it, which is what matters.”

Harry breaks into a smile, and it’s something soft and private, the kind he reserves just for Louis. When he leans in for a kiss, everything about it is familiar and comfortable, the way that Harry threads his fingers into Louis’ hair, the way his tongue brushes Louis’, the way that he tilts his head to deepen it. But it feels different.

“I’m not going to New York,” Harry says suddenly, and all Louis can do is stare at the shape of his jaw, the shadows of his dark lashes, the curve of his mouth. “I called them today and told them ‘thanks, but no thanks.’”

Louis can’t breathe. Harry isn’t going to New York, Louis gets to _keep_ him, keep him _here_ , and everything about tonight feels different. Louis closes the gap between them and kisses Harry again, and if the first kiss was soothing, this kiss is scorching, the kind that gets Louis’ heart racing just from the very first touch.

“I love you, you know that?” Harry breathes when he pulls away, so soft and quiet that Louis isn’t sure he heard him properly. He might not be able to hear him anyway, not over the thud of his heart. “I’ve been feeling it for ages, but then tonight, the way you came to the opera with me without a second’s hesitation, just because you knew it would make me smile, that’s when I knew for sure.”

Louis’ heart feels like it’s going to burst out of his chest, like he’s going to soar up into the air and never come back down. If it wasn’t for Harry’s hand resting on his cheek, he’s sure he’d already be up there. In all of his wildest dreams, he’d never imagined it would feel like this. Because the person he loves is in love with him too.

“I love you,” Louis answers, and he can’t see through his tears, but he’s never been so happy in his life. “Oh, I love you, I love you, I love you. I’ve wanted to tell you for days now, but I didn’t know how you felt. I was too scared. But you just said it, and, oh. Oh, wow.”

“I do. Love you, I mean. More than I’ve ever loved anyone else, I think.” There are tears in Harry’s eyes too, and the two of them are a mess, and Louis has never been so happy.

“I’ve never loved anyone like I love you,” Louis confesses. “Like, never loved anyone else properly, anyway, but even if I had they wouldn’t have held a candle to you, Harry Styles.”

Harry laughs, and it’s a watery sound, like his throat is choked with tears. Louis knows the feeling.

They kiss and kiss and kiss until Louis feels like he could burst out of his skin if he doesn’t get some relief soon, and Harry gently takes off his pants and makes _love_ to him. They don’t use those words but it’s so clear to Louis that that’s what that is. Harry is just as tender with him as ever but there’s so much _more_ , and it’s the greatest night of Louis’ entire life.

Because Harry _loves_ him, and everything feels different now.

<< >>

“So, you’re still looking for a job?” Liam asks from his spot across the booth. And it’s _Liam_ , Liam is here with him and Louis. Harry’s so thrilled to be back with him, even if only for a short while.

“Yeah, still looking, that other thing didn’t exactly pan out, so…” he trails off and shrugs one shoulder, because he’s a little bit over it yet still kind of broken up about it. And that’s the conundrum of his life. It’s both good and bad right now, the good very good and the bad very bad. He’s still trying to work it all out. Next to him, Louis wraps his arm around his waist and gives it a little squeeze. And hey, that’s a reminder of the good.

“Yeah, I had the option for this job in New York that seemed cool, but I actually rang them and told them no yesterday.”

Liam looks like he could spit out his drink. It’s quite funny actually, the look on his face, like he’s about to explode. They wait for him to swallow, and then he says, “Mate, why the hell would you ever do that?”

Harry considers it. He could give some practical answer about how it’d be hard to be so far away from home and how he doesn’t quite feel up to the challenge of launching a new branch of a company. Those are valid reasons, and there’s a grain of truth to both. But he goes for the honest one.

“I didn’t want to leave Louis, to tell you the truth. I mean, it seems absolutely _crazy_ , but this feels, right, you know? Something will come up.”

“Aw, babe,” Louis says as he pinches Harry’s cheek. Harry just swats him away, but he doesn’t manage to push him away until Louis has pressed a sloppy kiss to his cheek.

“Gross, you smell like beer. Go away before I change my mind.”

Liam is watching this exchange with a smile on his face. “I’m really happy for you two.”

Harry grins before he can stop himself. Some days he feels a little bit crazy with how much he feels for Louis. He sometimes feel like his heart could burst with it. He thought he knew what love was when he was with Andrew, but things with Louis are like night and day in comparison to that. He can’t believe that six months ago he’d promised himself he’d never fall in love again, had resigned himself to a life of celibacy, and now he’s here pressed up against Louis, feeling safe and secure.

Andrew had closed him off, stopped him from doing things he wanted to do. But Louis only encourages him, helps him to grow as a person and only ever wants the best for him. He thinks he knew that in Paris, but he was too scared to really face his feelings. But then one day last week, Louis was sitting on his own kitchen counter, legs kicking against the cabinets as he sipped his tea and told Harry a story about something that happened at work, and Harry looked up at him and just knew. It felt a bit like a punch to the stomach, but he just…he just _knew_. Knew the only word for this was love.

Everything felt a bit less scary after that.

“Well you should have called me the second you found out you didn’t get that job, Harry. I told you my sister works for a magazine here, she was complaining to me just yesterday that they’re looking for a new photo editor and she’s having to do a lot of that work herself. You should send her your resume. They’re desperate, looking for someone to start ASAP, from the sounds of it.”

Harry just stares at him, isn’t quite sure what to say.

It’s Louis who speaks. “What’s her email? Harry can send her an email tomorrow.” If he were in a better frame of mind, Harry would make a joke about how he can take care of his own affairs, that Louis isn’t his mother. But he really can’t speak right now, too busy imagining this all working out.

“I have my resume on my phone, actually,” Harry says once he finds the words. He pulls up the Dropbox app on his phone. “Read it out to me and I’ll send it to her now.”

“Liam, you’re fucking brilliant, mate,” Louis says happily once the email’s been sent. “Next round’s on me.”

They settle back into a new thread of conversation, but the whole time Harry is sitting there he’s thinking _This might work out, this might work out_. He thinks Louis can hear his thoughts, because he’s rubbing his thumb slowly along Harry’s thigh.

For a split second Harry worries that he’s getting ahead of himself again, but he finds he doesn’t really care. What’s going to happen will happen, so he might as well enjoy the moment now.

*

He gets a call at half ten the next morning. It’s Liam’s sister.

“Could you come in for an interview tomorrow? Liam told me a bit about you, and honestly, you sound perfect. We’re a tiny office, just to warn you, like there’s only seven of us, but I think it’d be a good fit.” She sounds genuinely happy to have him on the line, and Harry’s not sure which of them is more enthusiastic about the idea of Harry working there.

Just before she gets off the line, she tells him that she took a look at his portfolio website and thinks he’s really talented. He sits down on the couch in a bit of a daze once they make arrangements for an interview tomorrow, and he kind of can’t believe it.

It’s not like his dream job or anything, not like the Condé Nast position was. It’s just a small local London travel magazine, but it’s something. It’s a real job with an actual salary, and if he gets it he’ll be paid to take photographs. It’s a big step in the right direction.

Liam is a fucking genius. Harry might have to name his firstborn kid after him. Provided Louis is cool with that, obviously.

*

“You’ll be fine, Harry, stop fretting,” Louis insists as he pulls at Harry’s tie for the third time that morning. “And honestly, stop pulling at your hair, you’re messing it all up.”

Harry sighs again, and he mentally runs through the list of important topics he wants to talk about during the interview while Louis is fixing his hair. He wants to make sure he remembers to ask about any monthly features, what kinds of activities they photograph, and if there are any opportunities to pitch stories.

“I hope this works out,” Harry says, and it’s the most obvious statement in the world but it’s also the only thing he can think of at the moment.

“It will, I swear it. You’re gonna blow them away, babe. You look so gorgeous, and you have the brains to match,” Louis says as he dusts invisible specks off the lapels of Harry’s jacket. He looks up at Harry, and Harry feels the breath go out of him, too busy lost in Louis’ blue eyes and the curve of his perfect smile to do anything silly like breathing.

“Thank you,” Harry says quietly, and it hits him again just how much he loves Louis. Not because he’s willing to do things like take him out to brunch in Paris or help him with his interviews, though those are pretty big factors. But he also loves him because he’s just generally always there for him, supporting him and reminding him that he’s not alone. Because he picked up Harry’s bruised heart and stitched it back together again when Harry didn’t want to let anyone near it, and he made everything in Harry’s life so much better.

He’s the love of Harry’s life, and he knows with absolute certainty that he’ll be the only one to ever have that role.

“I love you,” Louis says as he leans in for a kiss. “Go show them what _Harry Styles, Assistant Photo Editor Extraordinaire_ can do.”

It makes Harry laugh, which he knows was the intention. He kisses Louis again. “I love you too. Thank you. I’ll text you when I’m done?”

Louis nods. “I’ll be waiting here with champagne when you get home.”

And then Harry steps out the door and faces his future.


	3. III.

**Epilogue**

**10 months later**

“Babe, can we please put the couch facing this way?”

“I thought we agreed we’d put it facing the window. It’s so much nicer, Lou, _please_.”

“Harry,” Louis says, tone flat. When Harry looks up, he’s got his hands on his hips as he glares at him. It’s kinda hot, actually, having Louis boss him around. Or it would be, if the placement of their new couch didn’t hang in the balance.

“Lou, I already agreed that we could put a Manchester United poster in the loo, the couch placement is the least you can do to make up for that.”

“You love United, you said so yourself.”

“I tolerate them because I think some of them are attractive. I don’t care much for the team itself.”

Louis gasps. “You better watch what you say before you end up sleeping on this couch on our very first night in this new flat, Styles.”

“If I sleep here does that mean I get to decide where it goes?” Harry sticks out his tongue at Louis.

“You’re a little shit and you know it. Please never touch me again,” Louis complains, but he still lets Harry wrap his arms around him and press a sloppy kiss against his temple.

“I love you,” Harry says. “I love you and I’m so excited to be moving in with you and honestly, that’s way more important to me than where we put a fucking couch.”

“Yes!” Louis cheers, and the smile on his face makes Harry’s loss a little bit more bearable. “Hey, I have something for you, hang on,” Louis says when he’s done celebrating, and then he goes into their bedroom to find whatever it is he’s looking for.

“It better be good, to make up for the couch!” Harry calls, but he doesn’t really care about the couch that much.

He kind of still can’t believe this is his life. He and Louis have a flat together now, a place that’s all theirs without any worries of interruption. They get to squabble over things like where they want to put the cups and the couch and what color they should paint the spare bedroom. It’s perfect.

Louis has been an assistant editor at Condé Nast Traveler for six weeks now, a promotion that had been celebrated with cake and champagne and sex late into the night. The news got even sweeter the next week when Harry found out that he’d been promoted to Head Photo Editor at his own job. It’s amazing, so much better than he thought it would be.

Just like his life over the past 12 months, really.

“Okay, here it is,” Louis says as he comes back into the room. “Sorry that my wrapping skills are utter shit.”

Harry wrinkles his nose fondly. “I mean, I know. I did live through both Christmas and my birthday.”

“Oi, shut it or I’ll take the gift back,” Louis retorts, and Harry just reaches out for it. The wrapping is indeed pretty shitty, but it’s a gift from Louis, which means way more than the wrapping ever will. It feels like a big frame of some kind – maybe a picture of the two of them?

When he opens it, he feels his eyes water immediately, and the wrapping paper drops to the floor at his feet. He vaguely can hear Louis telling him not to cry, but that’s overshadowed by what’s in the frame.

_An English Speaker’s Guide to Paris: What to Do, What to See, and Where to Fall in Love_ , it says in white text on a blue background. One of Harry’s photos of the Eiffel Tower takes up the bottom half of the page. _Text by Louis Tomlinson, Photos by Harry Styles_.

“It’s our article,” Harry says, because that’s all he can think of right now. His eyes go back and forth between trying to read the words in the frame and trying to look at Louis. “It’s… it’s our article.”

“It is,” Louis says indulgently. “It’s getting printed in next month’s edition, finally. I managed to get my hands on an early copy and thought it’d be nice to hang it up in our new place.”

It’s all Harry can do to kiss him then, his free hand grasping the back of Louis’ neck tightly as he tries to convey just how much this means to him.

“Thank you, Louis, this is _incredible_. Like, the greatest gift I’ve ever gotten.”

“You’re welcome. I’m so glad that this all happened. I love you and I’m so glad we’re living together and I can’t wait for forever with you, Harry Styles.”

Harry looks down at the frame again and he thanks God for Paris.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought. You can find me on tumblr [ here](http://afirethatcannotdie.tumblr.com) and there's a rebloggable fic post [here](http://afirethatcannotdie.tumblr.com/post/157870081701/anywhere-i-would-have-followed-you-by).
> 
> Amber, thanks for being the one to help me figure this whole thing out in the first place.
> 
> Steph, thanks again for everything you did to bring this to life.
> 
> To the group chat - thanks for all your ideas, painful head canons, and willingness to let me talk about fic all day. Thanks for the love you bring into my life. You are the bestest.


End file.
